Jack is a wonderful, loving and protective Alaskan Malamute who came into the Hawk clan shortly after the death of Missy, my pet and companion of over nine years. Three years old and with only one previous owner, we expected him to have some basic training in his previous lifetime upon which we could build. He was given up for adoption upon the death of his previous owner, and had spent between 3 or 4 months in a kennel before coming to our town's shelter. A kind person who'd initially taken custody of him paid for his stay at the kennel, but when the funding ran out he was moved to our local no-kill shelter in hopes that a home would be located for him. He was a dog in need of someone to watch over him, and we were a family who'd lost our longtime friend and protector -- it appeared to be an ideal match.
Jack's previous training, however, was scant at best. We learned early on that not only had his previous owner died: she had committed suicide. And Jack was there when it happened. He was left alone in the house until family came and discovered him and his owner's lifeless body.
According to what we learned upon Jack's adoption, his previous owner had trouble controlling him. Malamutes, by nature, are very intelligent and headstrong. They form a pack-like heirarchy within their human families, and need to know that they are not the leaders of their adoptive pack. They are also highly energetic, curious and playful. They can become bored and act out if they are not kept engaged.
The first night we brought him home, we received unexpected confirmation that he'd been home when his previous owner killed herself. Wifey went to bed early, having to work in the wee hours of the morning, and we'd already put Mumsie to bed. When I finally went upstairs to sleep, Jack looked over at Wifey's sleeping form and -- for the briefest instant -- froze in his tracks. He then got very agitated and rushed over to her, sniffing and pawing her until she moved and acknowledged him. He sighed and relaxed, visibly relieved to find that Wifey was alive. I then went over to check on Mumsie in her room. Jack noticed the sleeping form, and began to get agitated again, tho this time he kept looking at me and listening to my reassurances that everything was ok. I then said a phrase which apparently struck a memory within him -- I said "she's only sleeping." He looked sharply at me, then quickly checked Mumsie, tense at what he thought he'd find. When Mumsie awoke, giggling and patting him for waking her in the same way Missy used to, he relaxed again and looked at me with an expression that said oh, that kind of sleeping.
Now, if someone falls asleep in a "new" spot (on a couch, in a chair, or on the mattress in my office or the floor in front of the fire), Jack checks for signs of life the first time he comes across the person. Once he knows that the person hasn't just died on the spot, he appears to file that fact away and apply it to other members of the household. Tonight, we were reminded again of this touching act of life verification when Wifey, who'd fallen asleep in front of the fire I'd built, was gently nuzzled by a quickly reassured malamute. Oh, good -- you're not dead.
This is just one manifestation of his own personal form of PTSD; there are others, some a little more serious, but -- fortunately -- all manageable. He's very paw-centric; whenever something happens that he doesn't understand or know how to react to, he goes into "paw maintenance" mode, where he intently examines and cleans his paws. He has nightmares. Like any animal who does not feel completely at ease, if startled while sleeping he'll respond with a growl, snarl and bite. He doesn't let anyone play with his paws, tho he's relaxed a little more with me and Wifey slowly working on that issue, and he guards his food or most favorite toys from everyone who might challenge and take them. Wifey and I are working through these with him, but our household has the added challenge of including a little brown dog (Ember, a 45 pound Border Collie/Aussie Shepherd mix) and an 83 year old mother-in-law who wobbles more and more each day (Mumsie, Wifey's mom, who has Alzheimer's and a degenerative issue that has affected her ability to walk).
Jack's experiences have left him a little high-strung, and things that "aren't normal" bother him. Hence, when Mumsie's wobbling as she walked began to deteriorate, he began to express fear and concern whenever she'd come into a room. He still slept next her chair in the living room -- I should have had the foresight to end that. I didn't.
One late afternoon shortly before Christmas, I walked out of the living room where Jack slept on the couch and Mumsie in her chair: I went to grab a drink from the kitchen. Jack woke up enough to move over to Mumsie's side, where he could better keep track of me with his radar-like ears, and went back to sleep. And Mumsie awoke. She's always loved the dogs, and still remembers Missy -- her favorite. She doesn't always remember that Missy died last May.
Mumsie reached out to pat Jack while he slept. Startled, he reacted -- he bit her in the palm of her hand, an act she didn't understand. Jack knew, tho, that he'd just done something very bad, and he immediately sat up and loudly mouthed off a stream of malamute curses then ran upstairs to hide in a closet.
Mumsie's ok. Her hand required two stitches, and is nearly healed. But the law required that Mumsie's day care report the incident to Adult Protective Services, who then swooped in to ensure her protection. We'd already notified our local animal control officer, who knew Jack and carefully took down the details of what happened. We got the name of a recommended animal behavior specialist to come evaluate Jack, and passed that info on to APS. The next day, before we'd made the appointment (but after we'd spoken to the specialist to get the prelims going), the APS person began harassing the animal control folks, demanding to know when the dog would be evaluated and pushing to have the dog removed from the house if the evaluation wasn't done immediately.
I admire the immediate concern for Mumsie's safety. I do. It's important, in a society where many older folks are committed to care facilities by families who cannot provide adequate care for their loved ones and by an increasing number of families who simply give up or can't be bothered. Wifey and I had made a committment to provide homecare for Mumsie as long as we were able; it's not easy. We've been fortunate in a lot of ways so far, too -- Mumsie's progression has been relatively slow, and some of the supplements I'd researched and received doctor's approval to provide in addition to the dementia medication have appeared to help slow the disease. She is our number one priority, and we spent the Christmas holidays strongly believing that our new family member may only be a temporary one.
It was heartbreaking.
We'd already found a muzzle for Jack to wear whenever Mumsie and he are in the house together. It was an emergency precaution to prevent further incident while we worked with both of them and waited out the date for Jack's evaluation. He hadn't been an overtly aggressive dog, and still wasn't, so we decided not to have him removed until we'd received the expert's evaluation.
That was last week. Jack "passed" with flying colors.
Wifey and I now have several training tasks and recommendation to implement, which we've already started on. Mumsie appears to be happy and satisfied, and Jack is making progress. Our big concern now is the APS person. She's told us that there will be an unscheduled visit in the coming week to evaluate the household -- presumably, our overal capacity to care for Mumsie as well as considering whether or not the dog constitutes a threat.
I'm wondering if the person doing the assessment will bother to speak to any of the friends, neighbors, relatives and acquaintances who have all observed Mumsie and our care, or if the evaluation will simply involve looking at the house and dog and making a decision.
The house itself in amass in stacks of stuff as Wifey and I sort through over 30+ years of "stuff" while attempting to integrate our own things. We've been cleaning and clearing out for almost a year, albeit the vagaries of fortune had constantly interrupted us and left things more scattered in the months before. We've made a lot of headway since just before the incident, however, and ideally we'll have made even more by the time of the visit. Will it matter?
Will the dog's prior history matter, or my experience training troubled dogs, or the behaviorist's findings and recommendations make any difference?
Those are the questions that have -- quite literally -- been keeping me up at night.
In the meantime, we're looking for an updated muzzle -- a "basket muzzle" -- for Jack to wear that will provide the same degree (or more) of personal safety while not constraining his mouth as much; it will allow for panting much better than the current one. The only drawback is that it will look somewhat like the one seen in The Silence of the Lambs, giving Jack an eerie and ominous "Hannibal Lector" appearance. We've already invested in some additional training leads, and have one more to pick up.
All throughout the past few weeks, I've been reading more stories about soldiers with PTSD. Over the years, I've worked with animals that also had a degree of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Both Missy and Ember had "issues" when I got them. Jack, in that way, is no different. He didn't understand the death of his previous owner, nor did he receive a firm but guiding hand to acclimate him to human authority in a proper manner, yet he still tries to "get it right" and to be good. He's shown love, concern, obedience and a definite intelligence -- all of which have been marred by his previous experiences and left him as yet uncertain as to the stability of his current life.
Of all the animals I've known, he's the most clearcut case of one with PTSD. It's not just a convenient phrase, designed to cover up incompetence or fear. It's a real problem, one that can take a toll on any intelligent creature with a heart and mind.
It is a problem that can be worked through, healing but never quite removing the scars of the trauma that induced it, and it is a problem that I'm familiar with.
I'm being careful to take appropriate precautions to protect Mumsie while working with "Hannibal" Jack Malamute on his issues. The problem of PTSD with regard to our returning soldiers is currently inadequately addressed, but a growing chorus of voices and a widening awareness of the problem give hope to those who suffer both directly and indirectly from the effects of this deadly and debilitating disability.
As I write this conclusion, our little dog Ember sleeps at my feet, her dreams suddenly giving way to a nightmare. I paused my typing long enough to soothe her, and find myself asking this question: if we see signs of PTSD in both our returning soldiers and our animals, and can logically conclude that this is something that any intelligent creature can suffer from, then how much of the population of Iraq -- particularly the children -- suffers from it? How much impact, how much trauma, how many losses have the children suffered in this war? Relatives, friends, neighborhoods and homes all destroyed. Chaos ruling the streets. Little if any help to survive each day bereft of water or electricity, nevermine helping repair the fragile and tragically fractured psyches of an entire population...
Good god, what has our nation wrought upon itself and the world?