She was 5 foot nothin', with a beaming, beautiful smile and sunny disposition. We often encountered her while walking - she would smile and wave. She was Asian, and we guesstimated that she was elderly - though there wasn't a particular feature or observation you could point to in order to justify that conclusion.
Jack, our massive, powerful Alaskan Malamute, was absolutely terrified of her.
We first encountered her while walking the dogs in a nearby park.
Jack noticed her first, raising his head and turning his ears forward to focus his attention on her. I hear him start to make a sound in his throat - some weird cross between an instant "challenge" cut short and replaced by a combination of a warning alert and an almost whimper. He immediately turned and tried to lead us away in the opposite direction, straining to leap and pull me forward.
The look on his face was almost sheer terror.
I glanced at the petite, elderly woman as she slowly advanced, still quite a distance away. She had a slight grin, but when saw my wife and I look over at her, her face broke out into a huge smile. Jack glanced back, and his expression turned from "almost" sheer terror to one of certain, absolute terror. He pulled harder, and "woo-wooed" desperately at the rest of us. His expression, body language and vocalization all practically screamed out one inescapable message: "RUN FOR YOUR LIVES, or she'll KILL US ALL!"
I held on to Jack's leash firmly, keeping him in check, and let him slowly lead us away (although he looked a tad silly, making full-body powerful leaps and gaining only a few inches at a time).
I smiled back to the woman as she continued in our general direction. She nodded in acknowledgement, her smile growing even wider as she beamed with delight at the unexpected greeting. She had been walking our way, but not to intercept us - she was collecting cans and bottles from the park's receptacles.
Unfortunately for Mr. Jack, the next receptacle was about 50' beyond our current location, in the direction he was desperately trying to take us in as part of his frantic efforts to escape his vision of unspeakable death & destruction on two legs. And one of Jack's other quirky little neuroses was that he hated being followed at a distance by strangers.
We walked on, past the receptacle and out the side entrance of the park.
He turned and glanced behind us. We had put some distance between us and happily beaming, petite, elderly Asian woman. But she was still heading in our general direction, now further laden down with more bottles & cans and moving slower than before.
Moving far more slowly than us, as we had been walking at a faster-than-normal pace.
And Jack still freaked. He turned back to face forward and started pulling with renewed vigor, his facial expression & body language sending the unmistakable message She's still coming! Flee! We have to flee, or SHE'LL KILL US ALL!
He calmed down a bit when we could no longer see her in the park, and our walk returned to normal as we turned the corner of the block to leave his "death on two legs" nightmare-come-to-life behind us.
Jack came to us with a bunch of pre-existing personality quirks & odd fears that we discovered - some quickly, some more slowly over time - and worked with him to get over.
His first owner had died unexpectedly. When the rest of the family returned, several hours had passed, and Jack had been alone with the deceased. He couldn't wake her up. And then he was taken away and put into the first of several shelters.
That's when we found him, when I took a look at the Alaskan Malamute Rescue of New England (AMRONE) website on a whim:
Two days ago, on a whim, I chanced a peek at the site. There was a Malamute in need of rescue. And he was nearby.
He was at our town shelter.
We live in a small town. The chance of a Malamute showing up in our shelter seemed very small. Indeed, this one had transferred from a nearby, larger town. Still, we thought it was an interesting opportunity.
We noted his name - a name that held significance for me from past events and family.
We asked how long he'd been at the shelter. He transferred in on the day that we received Missy's ashes.
He is three years old - adolescent. He is young, intelligent, healthy and trainable.
We visited him. He appeared to really like us. We brought in Ember - it was important that our "little" dog meet him, if we were to consider adopting him. They played and frolicked together, which Wifey found reassuring. We introduced Mumsie, bringing her in and sitting her in a chair in the shelter's little foyer. He stood on his back legs, putting his paws on her knees (she laughed with glee) and pushing his big fuzzy face into hers. They hugged and gave each other kisses.
He wasn't sure what was happening to him, but he came along home with us once our application was approved and
settled in.
Jack's first reaction upon getting to our house was to happily acknowledge everyone, then go off on a sniffing/familiarization tear that was not unexpected. What was unexpected were his initial "ports of call" on his self-guided tour of his new home.
His first primary point of interest was the small sanctuary that Wifey had build to Missy, in our living room by a window. He went to it immediately, and gave a it a careful, if quick, once-over. He then turned and trotted upstairs. To Mumsie's room. To the spot where Missy's ashes had been hidden that day they vanished from the sanctuary. That was a tad spooky, perhaps.
His third stop was even spookier.
He trotted over to the room where Wifey and I sleep, and went straight 'round the bed to where Missy's ashes, in the nicely polished wooden box, now rest atop my nightstand. He studied the box, with Missy's collar gently laid atop it, for a long moment, then he leapt onto the bed facing the box, and lay down, gazing at it.
He was not only a smart dog, but apparently very intuitive. And unexpected loss - death, in particular -
upset 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 had other issues - other neuroses? - that earned him the nickname "the neurotic one" and other variants of the phrase.
We learned that when he wasn't sure how to deal with attention or a situation, he'd slip into "paw maintenance" mode - he'd focus on cleaning and checking his paws, focusing on his forepaws, until he decided how to deal with whatever it was. When we'd helped him get more comfortable with us and helped him deal with a few of his little quirks, he adapted the behavior: it dwindled, so half the time or more his paw maintenance was but a normal & cursory check (something fairly standard for the breed). If I went over to say "hello" and offer to help check his paws - something dog owners must do anyway in order to help their dogs stay healthy - he'd patiently let me check his paws, nails and pads, and then gently take one of my hands and perform "paw maintenance" on it.
He was reciprocating. I still smile at that.
He had many other quirks and foibles: he was afraid of free-range squeakies (the noise-making "squeaky toy" bauble that is usually encased inside a toy). He was afraid of bees, and any small bug that made a bee-like buzzing sound (particularly if it was a low-octave but loud sound). He was afraid of mittens - large ones, the kind that resembled kitchen oven mitts. (We figured he must've been smacked with them before, judging by his reaction.)
We have no idea, tho, why he was so starkly terrified of the petite, elderly Asian woman with the big, broad smile that practically glowed with happiness.
All we do know was that he was absolutely convinced that she would kill us all, apparently in some horrific way, and that we had to hurry away from her before she got too close.
Jack was a good dog. He was just a little neurotic. A bit quirky.
And he still brings smiles to our faces when we think of all that we learned from him.