There’s a big bugaboo about a rescuer who put down a Doberman who became aggressive when he was put (in this case forced) into a crate. The rescuer felt the dog would bite. Interestingly enough, everyone who had handled that dog up to that point had not seen any aggression at all. Because if this crate aggression the dog was put down. Then I think about the boy. He raises a holy shit fit if I put him up in the truck by himself. It could easily be interpreted as aggression. He’s never been in a crate, that I know of. If he ended up in rescue, he could be killed. Now, this would happen if we had a catastrophic event similar to NO and I wasn’t home to protect him or we got separated somehow, but otherwise this couldn’t possibly happen. This concerns me.
Dreams. I’m thinking of the old Grace Slick song right now. Two nights ago my Grandmother was in my dreams. Talking in her voice that I hadn’t heard in years, telling me things that I can’t remember. Except my Grandmother died in 1968 and hasn’t been in any dreams of mine that I can remember. Strange, very strange. Last night Xica was in my dreams. She died March 24, 2005. I miss that dog every day of my life. We were together for 15 years. She was by my side the entire dream and we were running together like we used to. Maybe she just missed the runs, I know I do.