It started with the purple pansies. That’s when we realized there was something wrong with Buddy. He didn’t seem to be a wild thing when we first saw him at the Puppy Barn. He was a cute little guy, very friendly and sweet with adoring soft brown eyes and a silly puppy grin. How could we resist him? We couldn’t and brought him home. So began our adventures with Psycho Puppy.
He seemed to be normal at first. I called him Buddy instinctively. He’ll make a great pal for TB and me and the kids. Buddy wanted to be around us all the time. He loved to play and seemed to have unending energy. We were sad when we said “good night” to the little guy and put him in the crate we’d bought, following expert advice that this was humane and practical.
Buddy barked all night. During the first hour, I thought he’d lose his voice. He was barking just as much the second hour. I put the pillow over my head. TB turned the fan on high. We slept peacefully through the night. The kids, on the other hand, spent the night listening to the puppy yip and carry on. I guess I should have realized it then that his endurance for barking was a bit high, but I just figured he missed his litter mates. After a couple of days, Buddy got used to the routine and stopped barking all night long.
We settled into a routine. After TB left for work and the kids left for school, I would go out in the backyard for a while and throw a ball for Buddy. He didn’t especially enjoy playing catch, much to my disappointment. He wanted to play chase. I was too old and too fat to chase an energetic puppy so I just walked after him. He seemed to like that and was very happy with it. Meanwhile, I was wearing out trying to keep up with him.
Buddy was totally terrorizing the cats. They were very interested in him at first but as he grew larger and more aggressive, they would run at his approach. He’d chase them all around the house and when he failed to catch them, he’d look for something else to grab: a potholder, a pencil, a shoe, and he especially loved to grab kitchen towels.
TB tried to take him in hand.
The bigger Buddy got, the harder it was to make him listen. He was a very strong willed pup and had decided that everything in the house belonged to him, that he was entitled to attention and playmates around the clock. The moment we’d turn our back on him, he’d be in the kitchen yanking towels off the rack or in the bedroom dragging socks out of the hamper.
He’d prance in front of TB and me, wiggling his rump and grinning. It was as if he was saying, “Look what I have! Nyah, nyah!”
Approaching him slowly, we’d say, “Buddy, give!”
He would wait until we were just in reach and bolt away. Our house is laid out so that he can run in circles forever if we don’t have another human to help us catch him. He’d do it, too, circling and tossing his head triumphantly. It’s a good thing he could stay out of reach.
Okay, he was an active puppy. He must need more exercise! We sent him out to play. He was back in five minutes, throwing himself against the door and barking. He didn’t want to be left alone out there. Well, we couldn’t spend all day out there with him either and so we’d go out for a while, play with him, and then come back into the house. He’d begin throwing himself at the door again, barking non-stop.
We’d bring him back indoors. We had other things to do so we’d put him in his crate until we could attend to him again. His crate was in the family room, an open “home” and he could hear and see us as we went about our chores. He wasn’t satisfied with that, though, and he went to barking again. I’m not sure what decibels barking reaches but I can say it’s enough to make you go mad … and deaf.
I began to feel rather frustrated with Buddy. What did he expect from us? We were giving him as much attention as we could and he was never satisfied. It was never enough; he always wanted more. I remembered other dogs I’d had. None of the other dogs carried on the way Buddy did. All my other puppies managed to get through separation anxiety just fine. They could amuse themselves without needing me to be caring for them every waking minute of their days. TB said the same thing. Buddy must be spoiled. He had to learn that we couldn’t respond to him as quickly as he demanded. He had to learn that sometimes he’d just have to amuse himself.
He didn’t want to get it. He would begin barking within 5 minutes of being put outside or in the crate. It was like trying to go to the bathroom and putting the baby in the playpen. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaah! Loud barking is more unnerving than baby screeches.
We weren’t happy to let him out of the crate when we were busy; he’d grab something and run with it. It didn’t matter if we “puppy-proofed”. He’d jump up to grab something off the counter. Then he’d start that “nyah nyah” game again. We did not always find it so amusing to play ring-around-the-house with Buddy, especially if he was running with a pilfered sock or towel.
When he began barking in the crate, we’d wait until he was quiet for a few seconds, gathering his second wind. We’d run over to let him out of the crate then, trying to reinforce his good behavior (not barking). That didn’t work.
“He probably just needs to be neutered,” friends and family advised us.
That couldn’t happen until he was six months out.
We counted the days and then joyfully brought him to the vet’s office. Buddy had to stay overnight and then he’d go home in the afternoon. It was wonderfully quiet and peaceful in the house. How peaceful!
The vet had a story for us when we arrived to pick up our newly neutered puppy. “We put him in the ‘executive suite’ but he didn’t appreciate the accommodations. He chewed the blanket to shreds.”
Oops.
Neutering Buddy didn’t calm him much. If anything, he became more creatively vindictive. Now we come to the pansies.
TB bought four flats of purple and white mixed pansies for me. He bought some window boxes and screwed two of them into the back of the house. We planted two of the flats and set the other two on top of our deck. We meant to plant them later.
We went inside for lunch, leaving Buddy outside. TB happened to look out the window just as Buddy was knocking one of the flats to the floor of the deck.
“NO!”
We ran outside and managed to catch Buddy, who acted as if he knew darn well what he’d done was wrong. Not only had he knocked one of the flats over, he’d also uprooted the pansies we’d just planted in one of the flower boxes! We were able to rescue the pansies in the flat; the planted ones were too shredded to be saved. I felt my eyes fill with tears. After that, Buddy expressed his displeasure by pulling the dryer vent off the house, chewing through our cable and telephone lines, and mangling our garden hose.
He needed to be watched … always and whenever he was out of the crate.
We needed to address the barking problem too. We tried shaking a can full of coins when he barked. That helped for a day. We tried “Quiet!” and “No!” which was totally ineffective. He didn’t mind being sprayed with water at all. We hated to do it but the only thing left to try was a bark collar.
The bark collar is designed to deliver a low shot of electricity when the dog woofs. If he persists, the shot gets stronger. It’s also designed to go back to the original low dose if the dog is quiet for a while. We set it on low and it did seem to work at first. Within a short time, though, Buddy didn’t seem to mind the shocks either. He was barking non-stop again.
We had to try a higher setting. That worked better. He’d go “woof!” and then his body would jerk as the jolt would course through his stubborn body. The collar quieted him a little but it didn’t stop him. In fact, he seemed to enjoy shocking himself it that’s possible.
What now? We realized he was too much for us to handle and began to consider giving him up for adoption.
TB’s daughter Michelle was horrified and so were the kids. “He’s just a baby!” Michelle exclaimed.
“Yes, but he’s too destructive and too vindictive. We can’t control him!”
“Well, you wouldn’t give me away would you?”
“But you’re not a dog!”
We felt guilty. Everyone seemed to think that Buddy just needed more attention and exercise. We’d try to explain we played with him often and gave him affection; he just wanted it around the clock and that was impossible. The kids would talk him for walks and play with him in the back yard. They tired; he didn’t. We felt like “abusive” parents.
When we went away on a trip, TB’s daughter Michelle volunteered to have Buddy stay at her house while we were gone. When we got back, she let us know she’d be glad to let Buddy out of the crate at our house next time we went away.
“Oh-oh, what happened?”
It seemed that even having two dogs and seven kids to play with at Michelle’s wasn’t enough for Buddy. When all the children were busy and the other two dogs too tired to play, Buddy would search for something to destroy. He chewed all of the kids’ pool toys. I’m glad he didn’t destroy the pool! He’d also pull socks and towels off the clothes line and enticed the other dogs to play tug-of-war with him. I wondered if we had the canine equivalent of Damian.
What finally calmed our psycho pup? Age. As he got older, he wasn’t as interested in pilfering anything in sight and running with it. He was happy to settle down with us as we sat and read or watched TV. We were able to trust him out of the crate when we weren’t home or when we were sleeping. He became the good, loving dog we’d wanted.
Buddy passed away suddenly and at home. He’d lived many years and the vet always reported that he was healthy after his yearly exam. Early one morning, I came out of the bedroom and found him lying in the hall. His breathing was very labored and I knew something was very wrong. I woke TB and son Bill. The vet’s office wasn’t open but there was an emergency animal hospital about 20 miles away.
We gathered around Buddy to comfort him. Bill and TB were going to lift him and put him in the van but our pup let out a groan and stopped breathing. Bill tried doggie CPR but Buddy was gone. I woke the girls so they could come down and spend time with Buddy.
He was our psycho pup and we’d loved him. We have not been able to bring ourselves to bring in another dog. Buddy was one of a kind.
