Mysterious Kung Fu Fighting Technique

(photos clockwise from left; Joe attempting to engage an opponent; Joe receiving a bite; Joe maneuvering into the Blob Move)



Joe is stubborn in his own way, refusing to fight like a puppy, preferring sparring partners far older and bigger, and is absolutely relentless – whether ‘winning’ or losing.

Many of the venerated Kung Fu fighting styles have names revealing the source of their inspiration: Black Crane, Praying Mantis, Monkey, Southern Wolf.

Today, I tried to discern what fighting technique Joe employed. His strategy was absolutely consistent. He would approach the opponent with his head ducked, his eyes eagerly up, grinning a puppy-smile. He would then be sent spinning unceremoniously to the ground, pinned and held down by the scruff of his neck while he wiggled with uncontained glee. As he spent much of his time pinned on his back, I had ample opportunity to reflect upon his method.

It was obvious, even to Joe, that his opponents had quicker reflexes. The Masters among them possessed explosive moves that launched them skyward, blocks that sent Joe flying and leaps that rocketed them to safety. One able opponent, a two year old, red, Doberman bitch possessed the ‘Red Eagle’ style, where she would descend upon Joe from on high and pinion him to the ground. Later, a lighting-quick, 4 month old Vizsla pup demonstrated the ‘Twirling Chinese Acrobat’ style, whirling out of Joe’s reach and then flipping him onto his back.

Clearly Joe had to develop a new style based on his abilities:

- His paw technique is focused, he feints and parries, striking solidly in the air – long after the target has disappeared.
- Joe is bursting with puppy energy, yet he’s slow. Very slow. Slower than dogs 10 years older, so slower than Grandma Mabel at 72.
- Joe lacks balance, economy or elegance in his movement. It is fair to say he trundles along in the best of circumstances and plows through in the scrum.
- He cannot catch even a Pug, nor can he escape from anyone. He lacks quickness and can only execute 1 move to another dog’s 4.
- As far as form, when he runs all his momentum is transferred into flopping and bobbling, as if he’s part Jello. This squid-like undulation underlies most of his movements.

So his strengths are equivocal, except perhaps for courage and persistence. He also demonstrates an unshakeable amiability. Even when he’s getting the very worst of it, Joe doesn’t lose his good humor; when he’s driven another dog to murderous rage Joe doesn’t lose his sense of supreme enjoyment; even when bitten with the dreaded Cobra Move, Joe loses none of his enthusiasm.

With his only strengths being relentless, somewhat strong and excessively single-minded, Joe forged a new technique.

On his low-slung, little legs, Joe learnt to lower his head nearly to the ground, thus situating his sharp, new teeth in perfect position to fasten around an ankle, the rear ankle being preferred as it is far from the opponent’s fangs. Joe has learned to slither around ankles, wresting one in his grasp, throwing his weight into the dog’s leg, sometimes bringing it down. This Black Land Shark Technique both distracts and irritates the opponent, forcing them to fight with Joe.

If the opponent dog ends up on the ground, then Joe then launches the Blob Move. With the other dog down, Joe just heaves his bulk on top of them. He can’t pin, or straddle – but he can lay over the other dog using his weight to keep them down. Since he often chooses larger opponents this ‘dead weight’ method is hilariously ineffective. He is shaken off like a pillow from a Hippo’s back.

It is always an honor to be present at the birth of a new Kung Fu Fighting Style, The Black Land Shark Technique with its signature Blob Move.

It is impossible for me not to admire Joe’s cheerful optimism, so foreign to me, even as it reveals an inability to perceive reality.

The Loves of a Pup

Things Joe loves beyond measure:

A leaf traced with frost crystals
A big pile of dirt – yumm!
Small pillows of moss
Rediscovering a buried bone
Chunks of cedar
Scrubby tufts of English ivy to rub his face in and then slide over on his belly
A lace fern to shred
Any empty water bottle
A pile of woodchips or leaves
Bear grass
Obese squirrels
Children – especially the fireplug shape of a bundled-up toddler
My boyfriend, B.
Very, very big dogs
Snow
Anything new, especially if he can fit it in his mouth
Waking up late and getting up slowly (I adore this about him, he’s not a morning pup)


Things Joe hates:

His Halti (a head halter for dogs)
Being left alone at home
Being left outside the coffee shop


Joe’s deep attentiveness to stimuli has made me notice things that register only in terms of irritation. Joe sees the elegance of frost, the delicious crunch of a frost-gilded leaf under a paw, the intriguing way it melts when he takes it in his mouth, its slipperiness underfoot as he pads across the deck, the sharpness of cold air in his nose. While my first reaction was, ‘Damn, now I’ll have to scrape the windshield. I’ll need to leave 5 minutes earlier.’

After watching Joe so fully absorbed by the frost (which is relatively unusual in Seattle) I saw it differently. As we walked along I began to notice how the frost outlined stems and twigs, yet fanned across some leaves and only edged others. How it lay like a sheen of vellum over the moss, how the thinnest layer of ice lay over the dark pool of water.

It was a beautiful, clear day, once I stopped to notice.

Shock Collars & Temper! Temper!

While walking Joe along the river in the dog park, we came across a 3 people kneeling on the ground, huddled over a white dog. The dog was a thin, young pointer, she was trembling, her eyes blank with fear, cowering against the ground as if to disappear. I asked if the dog was hurt and one of the women, a strong, blond woman in her 50’s (most likely from NYC) told us that the dog had been repeatedly shocked. I looked around but didn’t see an electrical fence. The women told me that she’d just removed the dog’s shock collar.

This poor dog had an owner who had been repeatedly shocking the animal, so repeatedly that the dog could only cling to the ground. There was a phone number on the collar and one of the appalled women had called the owner. He was now on his way to recover his animal and had explained that he’d been shocking the dog because she had run away.

Smart dog, that.

But the owner defies all logic. ‘Hmm,’ a hairy knuckle scratches an underslung forehead. ‘The dog’s gotten away. I know! I’ll shock it until it comes back.’ Such logic is not unknown in the monkey-world, nor sadly in the “missing links” still walking amongst us. So, our Neanderthal friend satisfied his anger at having lost his dog by torturing the animal. I wish only that the dog had run further, too far to be caught and returned to him.

Anger began to well up through my every pore and B. wisely steered me away. I thanked the women for taking matters in hand and removing the shock collar. I said, “I’d like to see that guy myself” but B tricked me by pointing out that Joe was trotting away ahead. I can’t stand to lose sight of Joe, so I was off.

Once I rounded the bend and could see Joe gamboling safely among the dogs who were belly flopping into the river, my mind returned to its anger, like a tongue to a sore tooth. Worrying it. Increasing it.

I wheeled round and said to B., “I’m going back. I want to take his picture. I’m going to post it on my site.”

I wanted to take his picture but even more I wanted to yell at him. I wanted to shame him. No, what I really wanted to do was to hold him down, attach the collar around his neck and teach him not to run away. Then to cool him off, I wanted to sink him in the river amongst the salmon spawn.

My chin jutted out involuntarily and I started off, only to be caught by the elbow by B. “No. Those women took the collar off. It’s their situation and they are dealing with it.”

I sighed and turned around to see where Joe had gone. He was trying to engage a Bernese Mountain dog in play while she was focused on playing with another Bernese.

Poor Joe loves to find much larger dogs, who are uninterested in him, and do everything in his meager power to get them to notice him. He twirled. He danced, and laughed his best dog-smile. He snaked figure eights between the two dogs’ legs. And for naught, he might as well have been a fly buzzing past their tails. Never one to leave unrequited love to a dignified end, he ran under his love object’s belly, grabbed an ankle and kept pace with the running animal above him. Not to be outdone, the Bernese simply bounded to her partner, pretending not to notice Joe’s 50 pounds on her foreleg. After he slipped in the mud along the river, Joe let go.

His big eyes followed the Bernese as she pranced before her partner. The two Bernese reared up on their legs facing each other like Lipizzaner stallions before twirling off. She leapt over Joe, as if he were a stump, in her haste to catch her mate.

Joe watched them race off and then shifted his attention towards a tiny, perfectly groomed, fluffy, cream colored Pomerian puppy wrapped in a hot pink jacket with black piping. This dog couldn’t have measured more than 6 inches in height. Joe reached out his paw and the tiny thing sank whining into the mud, elicting a shriek of dismay from its equally overdone owner.

I called to Joe. The woman circled Joe nervously in her glove-leather boots
snatching in the air at her dog to wrest it away from Joe’s muddy bulk. Fortunately, Joe lost interest quickly.

And as we continued on our way, I rekindled my rage at Mr. Dog Torture. I announced to B., “I’m going back. I want to see that man for myself.”

B. responded patiently, “No. You know what happens when you get that Irish anger. You’ll end up in jail.” Now, B has never seen me get my Irish up, but he’s heard about it and I’ve never ended up in jail or anything remotely close. Recognizing the wisdom in his take, and not wanting to horn in on the situation, which was ably handled by the angry New York women, I followed B to the car, still stewing.

As we prepared to leave, I saw the blond New Yorker and asked what had happened. Mr. Dog Torture was angry to have been confronted as he had spent thousands on training his dog. He said how he dealt with his dog was none of her business. His treatment of his dog was perfectly legal.”

Maybe it shouldn’t be legal. Maybe remote operated shock collars should be made illegal. I guess I can understand invisible fences, although I wouldn’t have the heart to get one. Joe would have to be shocked quite a few times before he understood it.

Anyway, on the drive back I was absorbed in rumination of what I’d have liked to have said, how much I would have loved to have gotten in the man’s face. How I’d loved to spoken the ugly, hard truth – surgical, dissecting words, words that would haunt Mr. Dog Torture for the rest of his life.

I, sadly for the state of my soul, have the peculiar ability to see almost instantly people’s hidden sore points. When I was a teen it was an evil super-power I sometimes made cruel use of – and disappointingly there’s a part of me that still thrills to the power of saying painful truths when roused in righteous anger.

(The only good thing about this is it has only happened when an animal is being ill-used, never if I feel I am being mis-treated. It’s very specific to animals as they little protection against people and no choice about their involvement with them).

B. made the mistake of trying to have a conversation with me while I was absorbed in my furious fantasies and had to tell me to lay off. Without the slightest awareness I had redirected my anger at a situation he described about his doctor.

I am still angry at Mr. Dog Torture. I would love to mete out some commensurate punishment and it galls me to no end that he can legally treat his dog that way.

And in the final analysis it put me back in touch with a dormant, ugly part of myself. It’s no excuse to say it’s genetic, yet(as I remember, probably inaccurately, from my reading) the Irish in the Middle Ages would crown a country fair with a Shillelagh fight. The entertainment wouldn’t be complete until the turf lay crushed and stained with blood, and keening trailed fallen fighters off the field. To the dismay, disgust and disbelief of foreign visitors, not all the fighters were men.

I’m afraid if I were a man, a young man. I’d have spent nights fighting nasty jerks simply because it felt good to smash in their faces. It is easy to say that as the only fights I ever had were with my brothers and I am ridiculously small. So, it would be my face that got the worst of it, I suppose.

I’ve got myself well trained now. I very, very rarely get even annoyed in traffic anymore, and am generally regarded as even-tempered, but today it is ever so clear that the layer of civilization on me lies thin.

Joe v. Miami & Me v. Me

This photo does not show Miami.

We met a comely woman and her dog ‘Miami’ at Marymoor Dog Park. Miami was sporting a glitzy, bejeweled collar in a shade of salmon pink. Her owner was perfectly turned out in lean-legged casual pants, a cropped cream trench coat, stylish wool cap with a coiled scarf under her narrow jaw line.

She wasn’t French (her accented ‘aboat’ for ‘about’ pegged her as Canadian) yet she reminded me of French women I’ve known. These women take great care with their appearance, without adornment they’d be quite plain. Miami's owner created a fetching air with her short, perfectly shorn haircut that accentuated her lovely skin, strong nose and the angular plane of her jaw line. She cut a lithe, dancer’s figure, accentuated by the flattering lines of her clothes, and her demeanor was winning.

I liked her, as she had a sweet child-like voice and an affecting friendliness yet found myself being a bit critical. I noticed myself thinking – ‘why, such a little girl voice in a woman of roughly 35? Why so perfectly styled for the dog park?’ Now, this most probably had to do with the fact that I do nothing with whatever I’ve been given. Clearly, I also direct my discomfort about this onto others. So I was mentally admiring the effect of her efforts while simultaneously slighting her.

I guess, though, in my heart of hearts I’d like to be nicely done whenever I go out. I’d like to be the kind of girl/woman that buys well, that takes the time to look ‘just so’ – that revels in such things.

I know I don’t adorn myself because I simply don’t feel up to it. I’d like to confidently make the most of what I have, rather than squandering whatever I do have.

Anyway, Joe and Miami began to play – Miami has 8 months and a good 3 inches in height on Joe. She is quick with an aggressive bite, clamping down solidly on the scruff around Joe's neck. Her teeth dug into his neck, thus positioned they’d trot side by side for long stretches of time. Time that no doubt seemed as long to me as to Joe. He tried to twist his head away but was pinioned in place; Miami had her face so buried in Joe’s neck that her eyes were barely visible. This went on for quite a while, she’d grab him, and then Joe would eventually maneuver his way out. He’d dance away and she’d quickly get him by the neck again. I hovered over them waiting for Joe to protest so I could separate them.

Joe never gave a squeak, never gave any sign that rough trade was unappealing. He would wiggle out of her grasp, block her, chase her, be caught by her – and endure another solid bite on the neck, again and again. Miami is without mercy; she snarled and growled as she played. Joe just good-naturedly batted at her head with his big, inarticulate paws. He danced along and seemed to be enjoying the tangling, the crush, the action.

Five minutes later her attacks grew more insistent. Meanwhile Joe had turned his attentions to a fascinating smell that ran along the fence keeping him away from the riverstream. He cantered alongside the fence, nose delving into the grass, his breath coming in short, happy huffs. Miami raked her teeth into his neck again and bit down hard. Without warning, Joe let out a deep growl and showed his new white teeth. Miami stopped short, her mouth agape, her legs braced in front of her like a mule. Joe fixed her with a hard, direct stare. She turned tail and raced off. And she didn’t come back.

He made his point. I was impressed. He’s only patient up to a certain point.

Throughout the Joe v. Miami bout while poised to intervene, I was also examined my reactions, my judgments about Miami’s owner. It is, I know, typical of women dealing with women. There's a hard-wired competitiveness that always saddens me when I see it in myself and others. When I really pay attention to what I’m thinking, and why I'm thinking it, I’m abashed, at best.

Joe and Snow

Today brought an unusual pleasure – snow in Seattle. This happens so rarely that even a trace of snow is a delight, bringing with it fond memories of frosty winters in New York, Nebraska and Massachusetts.

Even better, Joe the Pup had never seen snow before. The snow was gorgeous – wet, heavy flakes like silver dollars were drifting slowly groundward. It’s improbable looking snow, sloppy, clumpy and lumpy not like snow I’ve ever seen anywhere before. In Seattle snow rarely sticks and even more rarely lasts overnight.

Joe stepped out onto the deck and into the inch of accumulated soggy snow with surprise. He eyed it, snuffled his nose into it, and then scooted down the length of the deck snowplowing the bits of snow onto his nose. He raised his nose, tongue covered with sparkling slush and gulped it down. It was good, so he gnawed the deck boards for more. And more. Then he raced along the deck again, shoveling and ‘snoveling’ snow into his mouth using his black snout as a bulldozer. And then he stopped dead, and peed. On the deck.

This is a new behavior but I guess he had his reasons.

Next he leapt down the stairs into the yard, noticing that the snow was falling in front of his nose. He snapped at snowflakes, running in a tight circle, snapping away. This unhinged him to such a degree that he spun high in the air, and then raced the length of the lawn and skidded, coming to a halt just in front of the fence. He looked with amazement at the snow piled on his front feet, then twirled around. Dashing back the length of the yard, his legs stiffly extended as brakes, only to slide into the poor lace fern, his brakes failed.

(The poor fern is the unhappy recipient of many of Joe’s attentions – he tunnels through it, he snaps off fronds or tears at them with his teeth. In the early morning he greets it with a steaming stream of urine. Why this plant receives such special attentions, I don’t understand. I imagine it sees Joe coming with nothing but dread. It’s still a pretty plant, if bedraggled since we adopted Joe. I hope it survives his puppyhood.)

Anyway, skidding too was a new experience. He loped off, gaining speed and then lowering himself onto his forelegs like a makeshift dogsled. His mouth was wide in a dog-smile, his new teeth shone and his breath huffed out before him. All of this so transported him that he gave a hop of pure pleasure before churning off again. He swung to a stop in front of his digging hole, clawed up a bit of tasty clay and gobbled it down. His palate thus satisfied, the race circuit continued through the yard.

With the cold, it didn’t take long for him to tire and we went inside. It was a good day. Joe enjoys a snowday even more than I do, giving me someone to share the sweet, ephemeral lift that only swirling flakes of snow can bring.