Frankenstein

It's been just over a month with Frankie. He is turning out to be quite a challenge. In the second last sentence of my previous post, I mentioned how Frankie was safe out on our deck, unless he started chewing the wooden rails......  Well, three rails down about 36 left to go.

He didn't chew completely through them as that would really be a feat, but he gnawed a nice dent into each one of them. This happened on Mr. W's watch one afternoon while I was at work, and Mr. W was not happy!!

I walk him every morning and most evenings around our subdivision. Mr. W has taken him a few times to the park where he (Mr. W) prefers to walk. While a few miles a day of exercise would be enough for many dogs, it is not enough for Frankie. He is a canine Olympic athlete and an escape artist.  He slipped his collar one night in our back yard and ran away so fast, I thought there was no way we'd ever see him again; he was just a flash of white disappearing into the woods. I did not know one of the neighbors who lives across the common ground from us also feeds the deer. Frankie put on the brakes for his trash can lid tray of cracked corn and stale French bread. I was able to capture him while he was stuffing his face with baguette slices.

From all of our subdivision walking, I have reconnected with neighbors that I haven't seen for years. When I used to walk my dear departed Shilo, we didn't get very far because of his heart condition. Frankie has more than enough energy to do every side street and cul-de-sac. There was one part of our main street that I have avoided for years because of a crazy family with a mom that I didn't want to get into a conversation with. No matter how benign it would start, it would end with  TMI and overwhelming drama. No thanks!

Coming across neighbors who live on that part of the street, I learned that Whacko Mom and her cast of characters moved almost two years ago! No longer did I have to shun her former cul-de-sac.

Because he is so slippery, Frankie has to wear a harness to walk. Getting him into it is like hog-tying a calf, and you can only imagine how many calves I have hog-tied in my lifetime. Once on the leash, he walks pretty well, except for when he sees a chipmunk, rabbit, or squirrel. Moose does not like squirrel!!! He goes utterly psycho when he sees one. When we walk under tree branches, he looks straight up, hoping to spot one while I pray that he doesn't.

When we encounter wildlife, it is hard to hold him back and so much hysterical barking! Not fun, except maybe for the creature that scampers away leaving a frustrated 45-lb. hound behind. When encountering other dogs, he usually does a lunge and a few barks, but not always. I am not exaggerating when I say that my right hand--around which I roll the leash--is always swollen.

As he is still working from home, Mr. W spends more time with Franker than I do. After I walk him (Frankie) and leave for the office, Mr. W says he crashes on the couch and generally sleeps most of the day, except for when he is chewing on the deck. At night, after our walk, he cools down and rests for a short time, then he converts into Frankenstein, the Monster Dog, to terrorize me, his toys, other objects in his path, and the house in general. It is quite a show of strength. and agility as it usually ends with me chasing him around the basement waving a threatening paint stirrer.

"Where's my stick?" is my warning when the flying around and aggressive barking (Frankie) keeps escalating. The stick doesn't exactly put an end to the bad behavior but it makes me feel better to give him a whack or two on the rear. If I can get that close to him.

Dish towels and potholders beware; they are on his hit list. Irish Spring soap from the new shower; my best tube of conditioner in the old shower; tissues and dental floss from my dressing room trash can; he has a route. Stuffed animal toys eviscerated throughout the house. He is so joyful while chewing them open and pulling the stuffing out. I found poor kitty's eyeball in the couch cushions. 

Mr. W took him to a nearby dog park twice. The first time, he was the only dog, so it was hard to tell how he would do with other dogs. The second time, there were two female dogs from the same family, one larger than Frankie and one smaller. The larger one, Mr. W said, was aggressive toward him, but he was not toward either of them.

I am grateful that he is interested in helping find a solution to settling Frankfort down by providing more exercise opportunities. Yesterday, Mr. W came home from his home improvement store, tool store, golf store, and Quick Trip route, and reported that he'd found another dog park in the area, bigger and better than the first one. Last evening we loaded the Frankster in the car and took him over there.

That was my first time at a dog park: a large fenced-in field with dogs and lots of miscellaneous stuff underfoot, such as grass, dust, "mud," shredded tennis balls, Frisbee flakes, bits of rope, etc. There was a field for dogs under 25 pounds and one for those over 25 pounds. In Frank's field, there were three dogs close to his size and one, his owner admitted, who was under 25 pounds but wanted to run with the big dogs. Franker got right into the fray and it was interesting watching him running.

"Wow, he runs fast!" I commented to Mr. W. 

"He's the fastest one out there," Mr. W concurred, as if we were proud parents.

The other dog parents were friendly. One, of course, was the dog park know-it-all. How it operates through the city, what the traffic is like, and so forth. Pointing to the farthest corner, she said, "The only bad thing is there is a big mud puddle out there and it smells so bad because it has poop in it.  My dog got in it last time and I had to take her to the creek to wash her off before I could take her home. The creek is that way," she pointed to a wooded area beyond the fence. 

For the 30 minutes Frankie and friends had run in circles, they had not gone near that corner of the dog park. They were panting and nosing each other out of the water bowls, then Frankie collapsed on his side in a pile of dust, with his tongue hanging so far out of his mouth it was nearly flat on the ground.

"Hah, hah, dust bath!" laughed dog park know-it-all. 

"I think we've had enough," I said to Mr. W. "Let's hook him up and go." I felt it had been a successful first-time, and we had avoided the mud 'n' poop puddle.

Mr. W was stunned. "We just got here. He'll revive and want to play some more."'

Actually, Mr. W had a captive audience and he wanted to talk some more.

I don't have to tell you where the revival led to, do I?

Less than five minutes later I was standing near the cesspool puddle trying to call Frankie out of it.  Another dog came to me and almost knocked me over, transferring a generous amount of slime to my pants. Frankie was a disgusting bio-hazard mess.

Shortly, we were hiking down the side of a muddy hill to wash him off in the creek. Then, of course, I had to administer a real bath when we got home. He wasn't overjoyed by it, but he tolerated it fine. (Frankie)

"This was preventable," I hissed to Mr. W.  "If we would have left when I asked."

I never thought I would say this, but we are going to give doggie day care a try. (It costs more per hour than I used to make for a whole night of babysitting kids when I was a teenager.)  If he can go a couple of times a week to wear himself out, that would be a big help for me to not come home from the miserable office to a wild dog. Also, Mr W has called for information from dog trainers in the area who can potentially train him and us.

I am surprised that Mr. W likes him and is willing to spend some money on the Frankie Project. He is a good dog; we just need to learn how to kill his spirit.

And there is no office for dogs to do that.