UPDATE 12/31/02 on the Montana Collies
Statement by AWCA President Jean Levitt
*Permission to crosspost*
Many of the Shelby collies were emotionally damaged by their ordeal. Marianne Sullivan has a background as a behaviorist. AWCA was pleased to have Marianne in Shelby working to solve behavioral issues and help specific collies in need. Further, she gave volunteer dog walkers helpful hints on how to manage difficult behavior.
Marianne Sullivan
I wish I knew where to begin this story. My version anyway. There are so many ways to tell about this experience, from so many people. If you’re quiet and willing to listen, the stories anxiously wait to be told. But this is my story. I’ll start it this way. At the end, my last day in Great Falls, to catch a plane home. Waiting for security check to open, I went into the airport gift shop. To find something to bring home to my husband Joe. There had been no time to buy a present before I left and now it was Christmas day. I walked past the western art displays, the leather fringe vests, the huckleberry jam, soap, huckleberry candles, the mugs with imprints of moose and bear. I paused at a metal stand with its array of hanging beads, feathers and woven leather circles like spider webs. There was no air stirring in the shop, but the dreamcatchers gently moved and spun. I’d seen them in houses and shops before, I never thought of them as anything but a sentimental relic of a quaint Indian custom. Bad dreams are caught in the web, good dreams slip through and are realized by the dreamer.
You have to understand, I’m a believer and a skeptic. It is my dream I want to slip through the mandala and be granted. I watch the clusters of brown and white feathers, bound together with leather and beads and to my surprise, I decide to buy this symbol of good fortune. My hand reaches for one of the small tokens, and the clerk wraps it up in tissue paper. I’m certain I picked the right dreamcatcher, my dreamcatcher, and I go to my gate. The attendant checking us in wears a red Christmas sweater with the words “I Believe” woven into the holiday wool. I believe too, I want to tell her, but instead I only think it.
When I get home, I read the attached card explaining the legend. On the last line it says “Handmade by Mary Ann”. I hadn’t realized who the artist was when I bought it. It’s difficult to think this is an important coincidence, and impossible to think it isn’t.
Or do I begin my story with a cold Montana night. Moonless. The stars glisten and burn. We are standing in the darkness saying goodbye. We hug each other tightly and tears stream down our faces unashamedly. “Come back,” Debi says, “Will you come back?” It’s a statement, a question, a beseeching. She’s driven 75 miles to work here on Christmas Eve and Christmas day. She left her family at home. “You won’t forget them, will you?” I can hear the fear in her voice. “No,” I promise. “You can’t imagine how many of us care,” I try to reassure her. We won’t let this be forgotten. She leaves reluctantly that night. We all leave reluctantly.
Or should I tell you about the dogs? About the one I turn loose in the paddock constructed especially for the dogs to have an opportunity to run. The one I knew is hard to catch. I turn him loose and he bolts, eyes wide and legs flailing. When you block him to bring him in, he looks desperately for an escape route. It makes my whole chest ache to think how he got this way. To bring him in I must block him, knowing how stressful that is. Then I turn my body sideways to him, to be less of a threat, and lick my lips, a sign of submissiveness. To say, see, I am no danger to you, I mean no harm. He understands this, this is dog language. I blink, my eyes averted. I keep him in my peripheral vision, squatting on my heels. I look out over the vast brown field outside this enclosure, to make him feel less threatened. He stops at the far end of the paddock and flattens himself against the dirt and shavings. He’s telling me it’s okay to approach. He understands what I have to do. I loop the leash over his head and murmur softly that it’s okay, and we go towards the gate slowly, with him bolting, flattening against the ground and then bolting again. He looks away when you need to do something. He wants to diffuse the situation, this is difficult for him. I’m trying hard, he says, I’m doing the best I know how.
Lynn brings a subdued Collie girl out, looking for someone to hold her. We trim her fur below the ear where it is infected. Infected from her journey, or before. I lay her on the ground so we can work more easily and rest two fingers gently over her muzzle; scratch her tummy, and kneeling beside her, say silly sweet things. She’s patient and endures our ministrations. She leaps up instantly when we are done and plants her front legs on my shoulders, licks my face. I laugh and say more silly nonsense words to her. So much joy, so much sorrow, so much forgiveness.
Because of my skills as a trainer and behaviorist, I want to spend time with dogs most in need of help. I also need time with some that don’t. When I’m feeling overwhelmed and saddened, my medicine is a gangly adolescent tri, all legs and reckless attitude. He’s been to the groomers, I can tell. The wide swatch of red skin around his eye is the only visible scar from his experience. He’s oblivious to his imperfection. I’m in awe of his resiliency. He isn’t interested in walking, bouncing up and down with a little forward motion is more fun. He makes me laugh. An artificial Christmas tree is decorated in the building with ornaments, candy canes. We pass the tree on our way outside and I thwart his devious plan to rip a decorated branch out of its holder. He tries to say hello to everyone, he’s a gentleman, and doesn’t want to be rude and miss a hug or pet. We all oblige.
It was late in the evening when I got home to Virginia. Coming in, Joe had all the dogs in the kitchen. All but one, but that’s another story for another time. One by one my own dogs circle me and one by one they jump up to say hello, licking my moist cheeks and slowly wagging their tails, like they knew why I was gone so long, and I didn’t have to explain anything.
Thank you, Marianne, for making the trip to Shelby at your own expense and sharing your expertise with collies.
Calmly,
Jean Levitt, President AWCA
Lisa King, AWCA Director AWCA Rescue
Officers and Members of AWCA