This isn’t another one of those stories about a scary dog who turned out to be a teddy bear.
Mack, a mix of mastiff and who-knows-what, was no teddy bear.
Whatever damage he’d suffered in his early days ran deep. He viewed the world as a threat — and he’d do whatever it took to defend himself.
The first words out of my mouth when I saw Mack were, “That is one dog I will NEVER walk!”
He was lying in his outdoor run, paws forward, head upright like a Sphinx, following me with his eyes every time I’d walk by.
Did I hear a low growl coming from him? I wasn’t sure, but it was a sound I would come to know very well.
Each day, I’d toss a treat into his run — “Don’t put your fingers in his cage!” the staff would warn. He didn’t move. Just those deep, dark eyes, following me. But by the end of the day, I’d notice that the treat was gone.
Days turned into weeks turned into months. And then one day, I tossed in a treat … and he got up.
He moved slowly and very stiffly. He kept his eyes glued to me, as he made his way to the treat. He nosed it for a moment, then gobbled it up.
We continued this pattern for weeks: I’d toss the treat, and he’d get up and eat it as I walked on.
I’d seen his reaction to people who lingered at his cage door. He would erupt with a sudden, explosive, terrifying snarl and throw his massive body against the cage door.
And yet, something was happening between us. Some kind of connection. I could feel it.
With all the “book learning” I’ve done on dog behavior, training, body language, and communication, there’s always been one resource I trust more than any other — my gut. And it’s never let me down.
My gut was telling me that in a world of threats, Mack didn’t consider me one.
I don’t know why he chose me. Or maybe I chose him. I’ve thought about this many times. All I know is that somehow, Mack and I connected.
Throughout our one and a half year relationship, we did a dance of me wondering, “Does he trust me? Can I trust him?” and most of the time, Mack would answer, “Yes, you can. I’m your dog.”
I never forgot who he was or what he was capable of. But somehow, like any relationship that’s dealing with so much baggage, we made it work.
After weeks of tossing treats to him and standing in front of his cage with no reaction on his part, I decided to take him for a walk.
Let me fully explain about Mack. He was a complicated dog. He was unpredictable and loaded with behavioral issues.
We knew he was a serious guarder. What went into his mouth, stayed in his mouth. He seemed bothered by men, fingers, anyone approaching him … And you could never let him be in a position where he had a height advantage.
Still, one day, I decided to go into the lion’s den.
I’ve written here before that I’m not a risk taker. I look for triggers. So I asked a staffer who was semi-comfortable going into his cage, if she’d leash him for me. I wanted to observe his behavior.
Nervously, she went inside and Mack jumped around her. You might say any dog would be excited to go out for a walk — especially in a shelter — but with Mack, you never knew where that excitement might lead.
She walked him out of the kennel and after a few minutes, I told her I was comfortable and that I’d take the leash.
“How do you feel about putting him back in his kennel?” she asked.
I honestly didn’t know. “I’ll be OK,” I said.
That began one of the strangest, most frightening, most fulfilling experiences I’ve ever had with a dog.
Mack did become “my dog” at the shelter. He’d chosen me, and I mattered to him. Instead of lying, unmoving in his outdoor run, he’d now jump up whenever I’d arrive, tail wagging low, eyes bright.
He reacted to fingers, yet I could stick my entire arm through the door of his cage, and feed him treats.
He was a serious, SERIOUS, guarder of food. Yet I could go into his small, indoor kennel holding a bowl of his food, ask him to sit and wait, and comfortably put the bowl down in front of him. I could even stand next to him while he ate.
He could become aggressive if he had a height advantage over someone. Yet one cold, icy day, I was holding Mack’s leash when I slipped and flew into the air, landing flat on my back, Charlie Brown-style. I lay there for a moment, not immediately realizing what had happened. Mack stood directly over me, seeming puzzled at why I was lying on my back when I should be on my feet, walking him. I got up, and we continued on our walk.
No one could touch him. Yet I spent hours massaging him, rubbing his chest and belly (yes, belly), cleaning his eyes and stroking his head.
I don’t know why he chose me.
But I’m so glad he did.
He became my comfort, my buddy, my friend.
A couple of months ago, an illness began to take hold of Mack. It began so slowly that it didn’t seem like anything at first. Weeks went on, and it became clear he was a very sick dog.
Our walks soon consisted of finding a spot where we could be alone (we could never be around other people at the best of times), and I would sit in a chair while Mack rested his huge, tired head on my thigh.
I would stroke him and sing “Titanium” to him. I don’t know why. That song just came out of me one day, and he seemed to like it. So I kept singing it.
The last time I walked him, he was moving so slowly, so stiffly. Like a battery-operated toy that was losing every ounce of its charge.
He put his head on my leg as always, but this time he turned it so he could look up at me. I never let our faces get too close — he was still Mack, after all.
His large, sad eyes locked onto mine. “I’m done,” he said.
It was time, and we both knew it.
Mack is gone now. Less than a handful of people ever got to know him because he wouldn’t let anyone in. It wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t.
But he let me in, and I will always be eternally grateful that he did.
Be at peace, my friend. You were here.