It was April 26, 1989. Berry stood behind a barred kennel door of an animal

shelter, his amber eyes looking right through me. His black fur was faded

and dusty. Somehow I just knew he was the dog for me.

This captivating creature, a Schnauzer-German Shepard mix, was supposedly a

little over one year old. The shelter people told me that he should have no

special problems, other than those of becoming accustomed to life in a real

home. He had spent most of his life impounded in kennels.

I was told that Berry had been in animal shelters since he was three months

old, spending the last few weeks at the organization where I found him. Back

then, I was naive enough to believe those allegations. Berry, on the other

hand, recited an entirely different version of the story. It didn’t take

long until I learned the full weight of the term “problem dog”.

In the beginning, Berry’s emotional condition could be summed up in one

word: deranged. He had no touch with reality. He would act as fragile as a

delicate ice crystal one moment and a hysterical mess the next. He could also be

as callous and non-emotional as a stone, letting nothing penetrate him. His

jewel-colored eyes were tranfixed in a world that I could not see. On the

leash he would trudge forward, acknowledging neither man nor fellow canine.

To others Berry seemed old and used up, only a shell of a dog whose soul had

already left him. In this calm state, however, an explosive energy was

bulding inside of him. Often triggered by the most benign of circumstances,

Berry’s emotional storm was wild, hectic and aggressive. He could be dangerous to

any man or beast who crossed his path.

Berry lacked affection and vivacity. He was unable to enjoy the things that

constituted his daily life. He ate sporadically and without lust, and never

played. To him the act of playing was as foreign as a carefree existance.

Handling a gratifying relationship with me was beyond this dog’s

capabilities. Initially, I was only seen as an object which was to be tolerated.

I had four pet mice when Berry moved in. That first summer the little gang

moved out onto the balcony for its own protection. Berry took to life in an

apartment like a panicked, caged wild animal. Day after day he raced full

force into my glass balcony door. He swept through the apartment like a

hurricane and literally attempted to climb the walls. No bookshelf, stool or desk

was safe. He even buried his food under my carpet. There was no telling

what he could have done to those mice.

His turmoil caused him to suffer from diarrhea and vomiting attacks for the

first few months, requiring me to get out of bed a couple times a night to

take him out. Fortunately, for both of us, Berry posessed the ability to

control his bowels, which is not usually the case for kennel dogs. However, on

occasion I would awake to a mess on the carpet. It never ceased to amaze me

how a dog who ate so little could produce so much waste.

His roller coaster like temper tantrums and panic attacks continued even as

we developed a regular walk routine. He pulled violently on the leash, often

causing me to fall. He would run away and I would be forced to chase, not

once but often. I would not get angry, though. Somehow I understood he just

had the need to run away from something that I had no knowledge of.

I walked with him among the local populaton at a time when the subject

“attack dogs” was in everyone’s mouths. Those who dared pet Berry’s head were

rewarded with a deep intimidating snarl. Umbrella and walking stick holders

were ferociously barked at and puppies, whose owners disregarded my warnings,

were automatically attacked.

After a few weeks of this, I was physically and emotionally exhausted. I

secretly dreamed of a normal, obedient animal that I could proudly promenade.

But in reality I owned a dog who forced pedestrians to clear the way. I had

been verbally chastised for my ill-mannered dog more times than I could

count. I did all this for a dog who didn’t seem to like me anyway. He probably

even would have attacked me if I made a wrong move. I would sit for hours and

cry.

Initially, I thought I was doing the honorable thing in adopting an animal

shelter dog. But Berry didn't fit the accepted norm of a down-on-your-luck

animal. He did not come from the alleyways of a poor southern country and he

had no visual injuries. He was simply an aggressive, mentally unstable German

canine who ended up in a dog pound. I had no way of justifying his behavior

to myself, or, more importantly, to others.

A second chance at living

I aimed to show Berry the joys of the world, like the morning dew on meadow

grasses, vast fields and inviting blue lakes. It was there, lost in nature’s

best, that we began to connect to one another. Camouflaged by nature, Berry

could explore all of his eccentricities. He began to romp through fields,

roll through dust holes and kick around in puddles. He was continuously

tripping himself because his legs were slower than his intent.

It was during these outdoor adventures that Barry slowly began to shed his

layers of dispair. The intense amber eyes, which had hooked me from the very

start, would briefly gleam with joy before burning out into their accustomed

lifelessness. Those were the first signs of hope for my dog’s lost soul.

Many months had past before he finally learned it was okay to trust me and

willfully accept something from me. It took longer to tame his aggression

towards other people and still longer for him to positively interact with other

dogs.

During our walks, which were initially pure anxiety trips, I attempted to

teach Berry to deal with his environment. My efforts finally grew fruit and he

eventually found a way back to himself. After two years Berry became

“socially acceptable”.

The 24 month process had been the hardest venture of my life. Berry always

had a wild spirit. He was dominant, stubborn and independent and was surely

never an easy dog to have. Finally Berry did learn to tolorate other dogs,

in his own individual way. He was the majestic master that intimidated the

other dogs into their subordinate order. Hyper puppys were walked away from.

Pushy males were so cooly ignored that none dared to challenge him. Never

again did he initiate a fight.

A puppy moves in

In June of 1991 our twosome was joined by a shy puppy named

Jabberwocky. The young Alaskan Husky found the best possible foster father in

Berry. The master canine showed unending patience towards Jabberwocky’s puppy

follies.

I nurtured and protected Jabberwocky, intent on giving him everything that

Berry did not have as a young dog. Fostering a puppy was therapeutic for me.

I could only imagine what a juvenile Berry looked and acted like. I was

unable to protect his right to a carefree beginning. With Jabberwocky, I

consciously oversaw every step to ensure he was not exposed to the cruelity of

humans.

Later, we added the 10-year-old cat Fuzzi to our happy family. Both dogs

accepted her without a problem. Jabberwocky had the softest heart for other

aminals, and Fuzzi seemed to be his true love. She died of heart failure four

years later. The two boys searched for her often and they missed her dearly.

Soon we were joined by Lady, a sweet cat who had lost her home five times in

her lifetime. She died six month later of a brain tumor. The dogs were

good with her, too.

The pain of loosing two cats in a short time period was great and I couldn’t

think of adding another one to our family. But then came Meggie. Our Husky

was thrilled to have the deaf feline to love and Berry was more than willing

to let her share his food bowl with her.

Meggie is still with us and has become very dependent on the two dogs. The

trio greets me lovingly when I come home at night.

Berry’s adventures

As long as he was physically able, Berry loved to be on the move. He was

forever trying to quench his lust for adventure. No one was as thrilled as he

was to just go. We went camping, spent six months underway in a camper and

journeyed into the mountains as often as possible. He would inexhaustibly

explore every inch of our destination, finding everything from dirt holes and

dung piles to pieces of sharp glass.

I, of course, was his nursing aid, fixing all the minor injuries he incurred

along the way. He survived being poisoned. Once another dog put five bite

marks into his neck, for which he incurred painful medical care. He also

severed a tendon in his toe and had to undergo a one hour operation to sew his

lower lip back onto his jaw.

My dogs were my constant companions, whether I was on foot, on my bike or on

horseback. After two years of training Berry took a canine rescue test. He

didn’t pass. It turns out he is gun shy. Later I found out that Berry must

have had some type of formal canine training before he came into my life.

He could expertly stop his “suspect” and signal bark on que. His ability to

follow chase was within testing standards.This is a very extrordinary

achievement for a dog who supposedly spent his life before me in a shelter.

Berry learned to retrieve keys, open and close drawers and fetch shoes. And

he always was able to home in on my car even when I got us lost. I just

told him to find the car and he headed directly to it.

Berry grows old

It’s Janurary 2000 and Berry’s health is deteriorating. I must admit to

myself that even my dog is mortal although it seems to be happening too quickly

His old age is showing it’s telltale signs. His hearing and sight are

failing and because of age related memory loss Berry is unable to perform many of

his old tricks.

Berry has adopted a very slow paced existence. His wildness has mellowed

into a sedentary lifestyle. He often absent mindedly wanders off so I am

forced to keep him on the leash. But even now he loves driving in the car and

going to Beer gardens. He’s still looking for excitement and I do my best to

help him.

I can look back on almost 11 years of life with this incredible dog. He has

been transformed from a locked away animal shelter reject to the very best

pet dog in the world. The shelter authorities underestimated his age by about

2 years. I believe he is now at least 13 years old, meaning he was almost 3

when I found him. Back then, Berry displayed the dark side of animal

behavior. He confused and exhausted me. He taught me that love alone was not the

all-encompassing answer to a dog’s rehabilitation.

As he began to experience happiness with me, this dog became a prime example

that even hopeless animals can be resocialized if we humans give them a

chance. Berry is now in the twilight of his life. I plan to do all that is

possible to allow him to age comfortably and to die with dignity.

I have watched Berry grow old. With his characteristic majesty he is

allowing his replacement, who he heedfully guided for nine years, to take control.

There is no power struggle from either side. Berry does not stubbornly try

to hold his control and Jabberwocky does not impatiently push the process.

Step by step, the old commander is allowing Jabberwocky to take the lead and

become the dominant dog.

To me Berry and Jabberwocky are a perfect dog pack. They have demonstrated

how dogs can interact with one another, often proving the typical canine

books wrong. I think much of what we are taught to believe about this species is

based on generalities. Dogs themselves can elect to live harmoniously with

one another. Their courtesy can also extend to embrace those of other

species, in our case the cats.

My Husky has changed, too. The carefree, sometimes unrestrained, adolescent

has ripened into a sensible leader and protector of an aging Berry. The

almost 10 year old Jabberwocky has confidently eased into the responsibility

that was bestowed upon him. Soon he will have to walk through life without his

old friend and mentor beside him. I’m confident that Berry has prepared him

well.

A much loved dog has passed away. He was alive as I wrote the previous

article and sent it to to be published. On Februrary 12, 2000, Berry died

peacefully at home in my arms. I am grateful that my veteranarian enabled my

beloved dog to be put to sleep in comforting surroundings.

Berry became seriously ill and I knew the end was quickly approaching. I

consciously attempted to prepare myself and used every moment possible to say

my goodbyes. Finally it was time to let go and allow life to be followd by

death. I could tell that Berry was ready, too.

I’ve been told that putting an end to an animal’s anguish is merciful.

Perhaps it is mercy but who am I to decide? I was the one who took the

responsibility to end Berry’s life through euthanasia. I didn’t know the weight of my

task until I had to pick up the telephone reciever and ask the vet to come

over one final time. They say you have to love something enough to let it

die. I now understand the expansiveness of these words.

Berry took a part of me with him as he died. The emotional intensity we

shared cannot be duplicated. Only the memories can be held dearly.

Little did I know that the broken spirited dog I saved from a life behind

locked doors would make such a profound change in my life. Our journey

together took me to the outer limits of compassion. There, I found an inner

strength I didn’t know existed inside of me. In a way Berry freed me from my own

self imposed cage.

And now? My life will go on and the great void Berry’s death has left will

be partially filled by other causes. My intense anguish will eventually heal

down to a dull throb that flares up during those moments of vulnerability.

But I will never let tarnish the person I have become. This is how I will

keep Berry’s spirit alive.