The Dog with Four Red Shoes

Evanston in winter can be very hard on a small dog's paws. The city—and our condo building's maintenance people—slather more salt on the sidewalks than can be mined from the Bonneville flats, and that and ice tend to get between a dog's toes painfully.

We've used Musher's Wax, which does seem to help with the salt, but it doesn't protect from the cold. Dogs hate heavy boots. What to do? We've tried carrying Trooper's 17 pounds from our front door to the nearest pee spot, but both Debby and I have bad backs and that isn't a good idea.

Yesterday we tried a product called Protek PawZ, little fat thickish rubber balloons that come in varying sizes. They're billed as being both disposable and biodegradable. And they're cheap—the Small size packs contain a dozen booties for $13. They're available at pet stores and Amazon.com, and even Bed, Bath & Beyond.

It does take two people to put the booties on—one to hold the dog and the other to stretch their openings and slip them over the paws—but the rubber is limber enough to make the job fairly easy.

To our surprise, Trooper took to the booties quickly. Initially he tried to shake them off, but after a few seconds of stalking indignantly around the living room, he began walking normally. Outside, he ambulated as if he wasn't wearing anything.

Nice solution to a vexing problem.

Six weeks since surgery

Yesterday the surgical vet removed the splint on Trooper's left hind leg, broken by a bite from a much larger dog a few days before Thanksgiving. The X-rays show that it's healing, the vet said, but it'll take four more weeks of limited activity before he's allowed to resume a normal life. Trooper will need to come back Feb. 4 for another X-ray.

If he doesn't put the surgical leg down and walk on it within four days, the vet said, call him.

Fortunately, as soon as we got home Trooper started walking on all fours—so long as it is at a slow march. His normal terrier gait is a fast trot, and when he hustles into one—we have to minimize that for a while—he canters on three legs, favoring the fourth.

We're confident that he'll soon gain strength and ambulate normally.

Unfortunately, he's still in the Cone of Shame. He wants to lick the leg, itchy from all that time in a covered splint, and his saliva would make the itch worse as well as the skin raw over the steel pins holding the bone together.

As soon as he stops trying to get at the leg, I think we'll be able to remove the cone—and he'll look more like his normal shaggy Wookiee self. We'll then be able to take him to the groomer for a long-needed bath and haircut.

Soon after that he ought to be able to resume his service-dog duties. He doesn't seem to have forgotten them, at least the phone alert. Whenever the phone rings he trots to me and puts his paws on my person. And whenever Debby comes in from outside, he lets me know in the same fashion. I think the retraining will not be difficult.

Five weeks since the attack

It is now five weeks since Trooper's surgery for a broken leg at the jaws of a big dog, and everything seems to be going well. We've just returned to Evanston from Christmas in Arlington, Va., with our elder son and his posse.

Trooper behaved like a pro on the train (Amtrak's Capitol Limited), sleeping quietly on his mat and detraining for familiar pit stops at South Bend (Ind.) and Pittsburgh (Pa.) on the way out, Cumberland (Md.) and Toledo (O.) on the way back. He now seems to have absorbed the idea that when we get off the train, his first job is to find—and quickly—a good place to transact his business.

His startle reflex at perceived threats was fortunately at a minimum, except in the first class lounge at Washington Union Station. There a pretty young redcap zoomed around a blind corner and dashed up to drive us in her cart to the train, and Trooper took her sudden appearance as a violation of his territorial integrity. He issued a loud keep-away warning, causing the station boss to bark in turn, "Control your dog!" I swear she scared the onlookers more than Trooper did.

Of course, service dogs should be calm and laid-back, but no working dog is perfect. Trooper always barks when startled, like the terrier he is. We're working on the problem, however, attempting to minimize potentially dicey situations. Next time we're at that first-class lounge, we'll choose seats where he can watch everything that goes on instead of hiding ourselves in an alcove. No more surprises.

Trooper's nimble on his paws despite carrying his left hind leg in a wrapped splint. He'll walk normally on all fours and run on three legs, holding the splinted limb behind him out of the way.

Next Tuesday he goes back to the surgical vet for an X-ray and, if the bone has knitted sufficiently, permanent removal of the splint. He's expected to limp and favor the surgical leg for a while until it has regained muscle strength.

It'll be another two months, however, before he's able to resume his official duties as a hearing service dog. The vet says four months of recovery after surgery is required for that.

Right now we also have to minimize the jobs he tries to do. If he's in the room, he'll jump up and paw me to let me know when the phone's ringing. He'll also run to my office to let me know that Debby has come home.

Debby of course isn't doing the name call, but if she lets "Henry" slip out while talking to me, Trooper will react.

All this suggests he won't lose much of his training, and if he does forget some, we'll be able to get it back quickly.

One more thing about that Christmas visit. We could not take Trooper to my son Colin's home. They have two rambunctious dogs, and Trooper reacts with unbridled joy in their presence. Their play together is just too vigorous for Trooper to be entrusted to it until a few healing months have passed.

So on Christmas Eve either Debby or I had to stay at our hotel in Shirlington with Trooper while the other visited Colin and Melody and our grandchildren Will and Ellie at their home.

But we had dinner together Christmas Day. Melody prepared turkey and all the trimmings, and she and Colin put everything together in paper plates and brought the sumptuous meal to the hotel, where we dined in style at a table in an alcove off the lobby.

All in all, a good holiday for us—and for Trooper.

Good news

Trooper still must wear splint and cone, but things are a lot better than before.

Today, two weeks after Trooper was attacked by a shepherd mix whose bite broke his left hind leg, the vet removed the stitches, replaced his splint and cleared him to travel by train to Washington, D.C., to spend the holidays with our elder son and his posse.

And Amtrak has changed our sleeper tickets from upstairs bedrooms to downstairs family and handicapped rooms. No way we could have carried Trooper up and down those narrow winding stairs on the bilevel Superliner sleeping cars.

We still need to keep my fuzzy little service dog sedate and quiet so that his leg can knit properly. To see him today, you’d never believe that it has been just 14 days since his leg was set surgically. He wants to run and gambol like the terrier he is, and we just can’t let him.

We are giving him the next couple of months off from his hearing-dog duties. No jumping up on me to alert me to the door, the phone, or the call of my name. But I’m confident he’ll remember his tasks when the time comes. If there’s a problem Laura, his trainer, will come out from Dogs for the Deaf in Oregon to give us a refresher course.

What's more, thanks to the Evanston animal warden and a few good friends, we seem to be making progress regarding the owner of the aggressive dog.

There seems to be a rosy light at the end of this once very dark tunnel.

'Billy Gibbs' now on sale

The sixth Steve Martinez novel, The Riddle of Billy Gibbs, is now available on Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble.com as both a $12.95 paperback and a $3.99 ebook. It's also available on my website

for $15.50 postpaid if you want a personalized autographed copy.

Here's the cover description:

When the mutilated body of a black man is found hanging from a tree in Mackinac County 275 miles away across the wild Upper Peninsula of Michigan, Porcupine County Sheriff Steve Martinez is dismayed.

His bailiwick is ninety-nine per cent white, and the victim, an army veteran, had just been acquitted by an all-white jury in the rape of a white woman. Steve had feared racial repercussions after the verdict and suspects bigotry led to the violent death of Billy Gibbs.

But a mystery surrounds the victim himself. How could an ordinary truck mechanic possess such a large bankroll? Why was he so concerned about the well-being of his brand-new, tricked-out pickup truck?

Steve is severely shorthanded, but to shine light on Gibbs and to find his killer—or killers—Steve and Sheriff Selena Novikovich, his counterpart in Mackinac County, dig deep into the case. With the help of their deputies, several state troopers, a retired FBI agent who must fend off a hostile CIA, and a military police colonel willing to put his career on the line for the comrade who saved his life in Iraq, the two sheriffs doggedly track the clues across five states. 

The cops turn up another murder as well as a clutch of fervent neo-Nazis, one of whom is a gorgeous but vicious woman whose sexual proclivities rival those in Fifty Shades of Grey.

The Riddle of Billy Gibbs, the sixth in Henry Kisor's Steve Martinez series, vividly explores a troubling side of American life.

Attacked

Trooper abed just after we brought him home from the animal hospital.

The big shepherd mix flashed into view under the street lights in front of our condo building, charging at us full speed, its teeth bared. Trooper, never one to back down from a threat even if it was three times his size, forged ahead against his leash.

I stepped forward to block the 50-pound shepherd and promptly fell off the curb into the street, unable to separate the two dogs. Seemingly in slow motion I rolled over, regained my footing and lunged forward, shouting at the top of my lungs, “Get outta here!”

Somehow I found myself again flat on my back, but recovered again. How many times I fell on the concrete I don’t know. Maybe three. 

I remember being back on my feet screaming as the big dog finally retreated, and looking down at Trooper, limping. I picked him up. His left hind leg flopped loosely. 

A woman in her thirties loomed in the street, gripping the big dog by the collar. I could not understand what she said, but shouted, “Get that dog the fuck out of here!” She did. 

The next thing I remember is lying on my side, up on an elbow, outside the foyer to our building, gasping for breath as a woman beckoned from a car stopped in the street. The woman with the dog had returned, presumably having put it in a safe place, and squatted by the door. She was concerned, as was the woman in the car. Both spoke to me.

I could not understand either of them, nor, I suspect, could they me. I was stunned, in a stupor, not thinking clearly, puffing like a sick locomotive. Had I had my wits about me I would have asked the dog’s handler for her name and address.

But I did not. All I could think of was getting medical help for Trooper. “I’m OK, I’m OK,” I kept saying. “I’ve got to get my dog to the vet. His leg’s broken.” The women spoke and I could not understand them. I shook my head and said, “I’m deaf.”

I fished my iPhone from my shirt pocket and texted Debby, upstairs in our apartment. “Come down. Attacked by dog.” (She did not get the message until much later.)

Somehow I found the strength to stand and scoop up Trooper, who was by now crying in pain. The two women were still there, but I said “Thanks,” and waved them away.

What happened after that I barely can remember. Somehow I got upstairs to tell Debby and we immediately drove to an emergency vet in Skokie ten minutes away.

"We’ll set the leg," said the vet, "but he’ll probably need surgical care tomorrow.”

While she was doing the job we went to the Evanston police station and were interviewed by a young cop. It was only pro forma. Filing a report wouldn’t do much good because I hadn’t obtained the name and address of the dog owner.

We returned to the emergency vet. She showed us the X-rays. Clean break of the tibia right above the joint. There was a small puncture wound in the skin of the leg at the break from the other dog’s bite. She hadn’t been able to reset the limb properly and made an appointment in the morning for a surgical vet in Northfield not far away. 

Trooper was splinted and woozy from the sedative, and we took him home, taking turns lying on the floor all night next to the pillows where we had laid him. By midmorning the veterinary surgeon had seen him and was ready to do the job. “It’s fixable,” he said.

Before noon it had been done, with a metal plate and five screws holding together Trooper’s tibia. We visited him in the animal hospital’s ICU early in the afternoon. To our astonishment he was awake and alert, struggling to stand and lick my face. The prognosis, the vet said, was good.

He’s now home, lying on pillows on the floor in my small office, its door closed so he doesn’t wander around the apartment. When we carried him outside to the parkway, he peed readily. He seems to understand that that’s his job now. Not the others.

The tasks he had been trained for as a hearing service dog are on hold. We’ve taped up a sign on our apartment door asking people not to knock. We’ve muted the telephone ringers. In short, we’ve tried to minimize all the sounds he’s trained to work. We don’t want him jumping up on me to alert me, jeopardizing his injured leg.

Recovery will take about four months. For the next two weeks we’ll have to carry him outside to do his business. For now, the distance to the grassy parkway is too long for him to walk. 

We’ve resigned ourselves to paying some $3,700 in vet bills. (The emergency vet and surgeon did give Trooper a 20 per cent discount because he’s a working dog.) Worth every penny, for Trooper is a valuable piece of medical equipment as well as a beloved companion.

As for me, I was uninjured by the tumbles in the street. My jacket and pants were scuffed a bit, but that was all.

We’re staying home for Thanksgiving instead of spending it with Conan and his family in nearby Edison Park. It’s doubtful that Trooper and I will go to to Washington to be with Colin and his crew for Christmas. Late December will just be too early for him to travel.

One irony is that I had worried about stray dogs assaulting Trooper during shore visits on Caribbean islands during our recent cruise. The actual attack came right in front of our own home. Go figure.

Trooper on his feet an hour after coming home.

Trooper's shakedown cruise

Trooper and the Nieuw Amsterdam at San Juan, Puerto Rico, last Nov. 9.

Last Nov. 6, as Trooper and I approached the turf-filled wooden box on the Nieuw Amsterdam’s promenade deck, right under the ship’s forecastle, my heart clambered into my mouth. Would he or wouldn’t he? My fuzzy little black service dog took a tentative step into the box and . . .

Let me backtrack a bit. Debby and I long have been planning a luxury cruise for our 50th anniversary next June—possibly a month’s voyage down the South American coast and up the Amazon River.

But when Trooper came to me last December, we worried how he would fit into our plans. Would he adjust quickly to shipboard life? Could he get used to being underfoot in close quarters among a couple of thousand passengers? Would they accept his presence as a working dog even in the dining rooms while they had to leave their own pets at home? 

Most of all, would he take to the 4-foot-by-4-foot relief box, filled with mulch or grass, that cruise lines provide for service dogs? There isn’t anywhere else for a dog to transact business aboard ship. Trooper was highly trained in service-dog tasks as well as housebroken in normal fashion, and had qualified in stringent tests in order to accompany his handler to all sorts of public venues. But not this one. 

Trooper on not the ship's putting green.

I would have to train him myself to use a shipboard potty. And so, last June I constructed a 16-square-foot pine box and placed it his enclosed pen in the back yard of our cabin on the shore of Lake Superior, filling it with garden mulch and old leaves raked from the driveway. I intended to lead Trooper to it on leash and say “Go potty!” while holding a treat out of sight. Sooner or later, he’d get the idea, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t he?

There was one glaring flaw in that plan. Scores of chipmunks abound in the yard, both inside the fenced enclosure and out. As a miniature schnauzer mix, Trooper is a terrier, and terriers have extraordinarily high prey drives. They were bred to keep rats out of the barn. You guessed it: every time I took him out, he wanted to nail a chippie, not learn a task.

Weeks went by. Trooper deigned to use the box a few times, but way too few to be considered trained. When we came home to Evanston in early October, he hadn’t progressed much since June.

All that time I worried and worried about Trooper’s toilet habits to the point of obsession. I started to dream about being put ashore on a desert island because he peed on the ship’s expensive carpet. (Other service dog handlers confess to the same fixation. Our dogs must behave.)

In August we had decided that I’d take him on a short seven-day Caribbean voyage in early November, an experiment to see if my efforts would somehow bear fruit. If they didn’t, well, then Debby and I would just do something else for our 50th anniversary.

Still, I hoped we’d meet success. I am in my mid-seventies, and cruising is a good way for a gimpy old guy to travel when hiking even short distances on guided tours has become painful. Cruise ships stop almost daily at ports in various countries where senior citizens can travel inland aboard tour buses. Holland-America ships in particular cater to us; it’s fondly known as the Geezer Line. Cruising isn’t as satisfying as the independent travel we enjoyed when young, but it’s better than staying home.

One onerous task was obtaining permits to import animals from every country we visited. Such permits are required even for a six- or eight-hour visit, and getting them is a lot of work and expense. Trooper needed a U.S. Department of Agriculture Form 7001, the international health certificate most countries require in addition to proof of rabies vaccination. That has to be filled out by a veterinarian and endorsed at a USDA office.

Trooper on the beach at Half Moon Cay.

Then there are local requirements. Sint Maarten, one of the Nieuw Amsterdam’s port calls, requires its own version of the health certificate, with vaccinations and tests not often needed in the United States. So does Turks & Caicos, which also wants the dog to undergo expensive blood tests for rabies. Both countries must issue import permits as well, and for a fee. The Bahamas will accept the 7001 and the rabies documents, but, like the others, wants an import permit before the dog is allowed even a short visit.

Doesn’t matter if the animal is a service dog. A dog is a dog is a dog. No exceptions.

All that took several days of frantic emailing and running back and forth between our vet in Evanston and the USDA office in Des Plaines. In the end I decided not to go ashore at either Sint Maarten or Grand Turk. Just too complicated and expensive. We’d visit only Half Moon Cay, the Holland-America captive island in the Bahamas, and San Juan on Puerto Rico, a U.S. entity that doesn’t require jumping through documentary hoops.

The Nieuw Amsterdam was to sail out of Fort Lauderdale on Nov. 6. I decided Trooper and I would take the train rather than fly from Chicago to Florida. Both of us are veteran train travelers and know every good pee stop between Chicago and Washington, and we quickly learned the best places between Washington and Fort Lauderdale.

When we arrived at the cruise terminal, Trooper and I were quickly ushered through the formalities and placed aboard at the head of the line. After stowing our luggage in our roomy verandah cabin—a nice upgrade from the smaller one I had booked—Trooper and I set out to find the relief box. Forward on the promenade deck, the front desk said. So there we went.

And then came the moment of truth, the instant that would determine our future.

Trooper stepped into the box and quickly lifted a leg. Good boy!

From then on, every time we paid a call, he immediately repeated the feat. Even better boy!

In fact, he batted 1.000 for the entire voyage. From both sides of the plate.

As for the rest of the cruise, things went swimmingly. Trooper behaved as a service dog should, dozing on a towel beside my deck chair and lying at my feet in the dining room, only occasionally attempting to sneak under the next table for a dropped tidbit. He slept on a doggy blankie atop the pillow fort I made for him next to the bed. The slight rocking of the ship didn’t faze him.

Trooper and cabin attendant Pita.

Our fellow passengers, except for a few sour old grouches, smiled every time we ambled by. With few exceptions they asked before petting him. So did the Indonesian crew, dog lovers almost to a fault. Every time she came in, our cabin attendant would fall to the floor and gather Trooper into her arms. She greatly missed her own dog back in Jakarta.

I benefited from Trooper’s presence in other ways. I am a shy wallflower in most social situations, but the sight of the shaggy little terrier invited strangers to comment, and this often led to interesting conversations I’d never had while traveling.

The sole moment of difficulty occurred at Fort Lauderdale airport after the cruise. For reasons known only to itself, TSA decided that I must be thoroughly patted down head to toe and guggle to zatch, and my bags rifled rather than my steel knees simply wanded and the luggage X-rayed. Twice, first in the morning when we arrived, and second in the afternoon after Trooper and I went outside for a relief walk.

Both times Trooper, who is a protective sort of dog, objected vocally to the uniformed stranger’s hands intimately exploring my person, and it was a chore to hold a lunging terrier at arm’s length with the leash. Fortunately the TSA agents were pleasant guys with a sense of humor.

Despite taking pains with my corpus, they did not touch Trooper at all, nor examine his vest pockets. Maybe they didn't think plastique could be shaped into poo bags.

We flew home first class because it was our first flight together and I thought Trooper needed a little more room than cattle class could offer. He sat in my lap on takeoff and landing, but slept on the floor the whole way.

And now Debby and I are looking forward to our anniversary cruise in June. But not that Amazon River voyage, which would involve stops in nine countries and that many permits to bring Trooper ashore. We’re taking a two-week cruise out of Seattle to Alaska instead. Much less paperwork. Much less worry.