The Fuston Pack: Argos and The Boys

As the occasional wafts of salty, wet dog overtake my senses, I brush sand from my still damp pants and smile to myself, wow, I'm blessed.

I just watched the sunset perched atop a giant sand-rock (or whatever is was) with three happy dogs dancing beneath my feet and playing in the surf. It was my second meet with Crash and Chauncey, now deemed "The Boys" in my exchanges with Vicky.

I needed an easy night (can't run everyday), and as my weekend got more and more busy I worried I wouldn't have a chance to see Crash this week. So I posed a post-work Fort Funston adventure to Vicky, and extended the invite to James and Argos.

This was Chauncey's first real outing with me and he did wonderful. As per Vicky's instructions I let Crash off lead and kept Chauncey on while we explored the trails atop Fort Funston.

Argos trotted back and forth and importuned us to throw his new found stick incessantly. Always the model pup. I was grateful to have him there. His obedience and constant smile puts me at ease, and I swear the other dogs behave better in his presence.

I was a little weary of letting Crash off the leash, considering this was only my second meet with him, and while The Boys have come to know me and begin to howl and hop from their upper deck when I pull into the drive, I'm still new to them, and proving myself worthy of being followed. Furthermore, he's a bloodhound, and is predisposed to turn his nose on and his ears off as soon as we get outside. Predictably, he put his snout to the ground, tail high and wagging (it looks just like one of those orange flags attached to a soapbox car), and started following whatever scent he stumbled upon, but he stayed with the pack. Just as he'd venture far enough to make me anxious (in my mind I was already calculating how many steps between him and I, if I sprinted, could I get to him before he ran off if he tried), he'd check in, look up, respond to my call. Whew.

Chauncey, being the only pup on lead, was constantly pulling and trying to play with the others, despite my efforts and reminder tugs. He just couldn't help himself. So when we came to a secluded open area, with limited and narrowed entry points, I decided to test him out. I mean, things were going so well, if there was no drama, I'd have nothing to write about. Just kidding. I wanted him to feel free and trustworthy like the others, and I had faith he was.
And he was.
After some good romping around, stick chasing, and brother wrestling, I called Chauncey, and he sat while I put the leash back on, before we left our private play area.

Crash continued to surprise me as we ventured down to the beach. He was easy to call off from his inspection of other dogs, and he seemed to determine a safe range on his own that was within my anxiety boundaries.

Once we hit sand, I couldn't help it; I decided to take a risk. I ditched all the leashes (and shoes), Chauncey's included. We explored our way down the mostly deserted beach until sunlight began to fade. The Boys discovered things I am certain they had not known in quite some time, if ever. In and out of the water, free to roam with no end in sight, no fence, no leash, no worries.

This was a pretty special evening for me, to be able to give to these dogs in this way. I know from my exchanges with Vicky that when I do not come to take The Boys out, they just hang with her about the house and back yard. They are happy dogs, and their bond with their mother is strong. I am just grateful to be a positive element in their life, as Vicky has shared their stories with me, and it seems that hasn't always been the case...

Vicky explained to me in an email before I took the dogs out this second time a little of their history. Chauncey was past the puppy stage when she got him, and at about two years old, both he, and a younger Crash, were beat up by the boyfriend of their care taker when she was in the hospital. Prior to that, during a different hospital stay, a friend was walking Chauncey when he was struck by a van that was moving pretty quick. Clearly he is ok, but she says he's never really been the same since.
Crash was also grazed by a car while under the care of another, but, as she puts it, "nothing seems to phase him".

Despite all this, neither dog has shown an ounce of aggression, and are fully trusting and embracing of this new pup runner in their lives, and somehow, so is Vicky.

Oh, and we took some photos.

Bacanack: The Turk

Despite my many years of mandatory study of a foreign language, I still don't speak Spanish. I can manage my way through Spanglish enough when I travel. I even successfully conversed with an Italian named Fabio, who did not speak English, on the North coast of Zanzibar years ago during my stay in Africa. Admittedly though, on some level, I don't even speak English all that well. I tend to make up words (Beau used to dub them "Brookisms"). I say good, when I mean well. I use nouns as adjectives, and invent new tenses for verbs.
Suffice it to say, language is not my thing. I mean, I was a math major at one point. I certainly don't speak Turkish

This dog does. His name is Bacanack, Baci for short.

Sorry Cheri, but I'm gonna spell it phonetically from here on out: Bahji.

Bahji was my first true "puprunnersf CL ad post to reply to meet to run" pup. We arranged that Bahji's mom would bring him to work, and we would do a hand off at lunch. Bahji and I would run, then chill, and his mom would pick him up when she got off work.

As I approached the address for Cheri's work, I instantly recognized Bahji from his picture, pacing about in the park across the street. He's a proud looking pup. Dense, sleek fur, big smile, and really captivating honey colored eyes. I hastily park and stride up to the pair. Sitting with Cheri is a male friend and his dog (there seems to be a lot of male chaperoning on my meets, and I'm always grateful for it, as I think allows everyone to be a bit more relaxed, pups included). I greet the group using Bahji's full name, but I'm certain I've mispronounced it, and quickly introduce myself in hopes no one noticed.

Bahji is friendly, but makes a point to ignore me some as well, ever the street pup. I alternate between petting him and the other dog while his mom explains to me how she lived in Istanbul for over two years and rescued him as a stray from the streets. He was covered in mange, and wasting away. I look at this shiny coated pup with gleaming white teeth and very healthy gums and fail to picture him any other way.

Cheri's friend jokes that I can take his dog too, and I'm tempted, but today is about Bahji, and my first pup run, so I shrug off the offer.

Now I've had Turkish friends before. I knew some guys from pick up soccer who were from Turkey, and we got along fine, so I'm not too worried about this dog. Of course, they all spoke English.

As Cheri goes over a list of commands, in Turkish, that Bahji might respond to, I'm wishing I had a better ear for language all over again. Otur. Sit. Come. What? Thankfully, in her demonstration, Bahji decides not to listen regardless of language. Being in the US just over six months, he's still adapting to having an owner, and listening, and English.

Cheri's friend instructs me to teach him English, and I nod and resolve to myself to do just that.

When it comes time to part, Bahji refuses to get in the car until Cheri is out of sight. She hesitates going inside as she sees him tugging and straining in her direction. I know forcing him will accomplish nothing and thus wait. The door closes behind her. He seems to finally realize I'm coaching him into the backseat and hops right in.

Relief. The first battle won.

Once back at my work, I take him off lead and let him explore around the place. He is exceptionally nondestructive, and I fully trust him to wander out of my sight, but it's not long before he settles to lay next to my desk.
Then it's time to run.
We leash up and after walking a block or so to warm up, we establish a nice, steady pace, and Bahji does great, totally in stride with me.

Most of the pups I've been running of late, I know personally, and thus run them off leash, and they do better that way, but I couldn't do that here. So we made do with the language barrier, and bonded through the run, creating a language of our own, which was so much more than words.

To my pleasant surprise, the only time Bahji tugged at all on the leash was on the home stretch, and to be fair, it was really me who was doing the tugging. As Bahji tired and slowed, he would fall behind, until I coaxed him to catch up again. He ran nearly five miles with me that day, not bad for a first outing, not bad at all.

Bahji was content to sleep on the cool floor next to my desk again for the rest of the afternoon, occasionally getting up for water, or to sniff around and check out whatever food was being eaten, albeit, not exactly beg.

When Cheri arrived to pick him up I warned her that he might be extra hungry that night. Then I picked up his leash, and...

"Bahji, Sit."

And he did.