Freyja Spring

In the Spring of 2008, in an attempt to coerce our children into behaving during mass without having to spend money, we offered to stop at a PetSmart holding a pet adoption day.  The Virginia German Shepherd Rescue was representing with several dogs.  Like the suckers we are, Mike and I fell in love with one particular girl named Betsy.  She looked just like our Alyx.  Black and tan and tiny for a GSD.

The only problem was that she had already been snatched up.

After we had expressed interest in Betsy, we found ourselves on the rescue group's radar. They sent us a photo of a beautiful 16 week old pup named Misty.  Misty had been relinquished by her owners in West Virginia.  They were backyard breeders and couldn't sell her because she was too aggressive.  The rescue group said they saw no aggression, but she was neglected and half starved.

We agreed to meet her, piled the three kids into the van one rainy afternoon and painfully drove one mile in an hour and a half before turning around, defeated.  Ah, yes, but DC traffic was not going to foil any plans the rescue group had of giving us one of their dogs.  If we could not come to Misty, Misty would come to us.

The next day, she was delivered to our backyard with a new name, "Freyja" as in the Norse goddess, and an $800 adoption fee because goddesses don't come cheap, apparently.  

They also don't come easy. 

Within a few weeks, I knew we had a problem.  Freyja would growl, hair sticking up, teeth bared any time any of us came near her while there was food in her bowl.  She lunged at our neighbors when they were in their backyard and she'd nip at the kids' heels as they played.  She was out of our control, unwilling to calm down enough to even take direction.

I did some research and we stopped putting food in her bowl.  Instead, come meal time, we would all take a handful and she would be forced to eat directly out of our hands.  It didn't take long for her to associate food with our presence.  She stopped her food aggression and I found hope.

We hired a hippy-dippy, feel-good behaviorist who came to our house and mapped out, literally on poster board, a course of action based on positive reinforcement and the administering of Bach flower essences.   The former had no effect whatsoever. The latter made her vomit blood.

It was after she took off with the double jogging stroller with all three kids inside to chase after a squirrel, and then lunged at a baby strolling by on the sidewalk, that I decided something drastic needed to happen.  I sat down late one night and searched the internet for something, anything I could do.  Mike was gone in Afghanistan.  I was alone with 3 kids, little in the way of a support network, and a dog who was completely out of control.

That's when I stumbled upon Daniel Rice at Braveheart Kennels.

During our initial interview, Dan asked me to tell him the problems we'd been having with Freyja.  I rambled on for several minutes, listing just a sampling of her transgressions.  He then asked me to tell him the things I liked about Freyja.

"She's a beautiful dog," I said.

"That's it?" he asked.

And I burst into tears.  

He had his work cut out for him, but Daniel Rice knows dogs like few other people I've met.  He's tough.  He works his dogs like the alpha of the pack.  There's positive reinforcement, but there are painful negative consequences as well.  Coming from me, who wouldn't even use a prong collar to control Freyja, to Dan who uses electric shock collars was, well, a shock.  To all of us.  

When I returned 6 weeks later to receive my own training from Dan, he told me, "Freyja's a great dog, but she needs strong leadership.  If you can't lead her, I don't believe she'd be safe in your home and I won't let her leave this facility.  Are you willing to do what I tell you?"

I nodded.

Freyja was sitting beside me, a rope around her neck, looking calm and obedient. 

"I want you to take this lead and give it a yank.  I want to hear her yelp," he instructed me.

"But she didn't do anything wrong," I whined.

"I don't care," he said.  "She needs to know you're in charge.  I need to know you're in charge."

"But it'll hurt her," I argued.

"You ever spank your kids?" he asked.

"Yes," I answered, hesitantly.

"Ever make 'em cry?" he continued.

"Uh, yeah.."

"So what kind of a mother would spank her kids and make 'em cry, but not want to make her dog cry?"  

It was the zinger that he knew would motivate me to do what needed to be done.  And with that, I snapped the rope.  Freyja let out a yelp, came to attention, and sat by my side, waiting for a command.  We were a new team, she and I.  We worked together with Daniel showing me how to lead and reminding Freyja how to follow.  

Over the years, we continued our teamwork, she and I.  Oh, sure, there were times when she frustrated the hell out of me.  Like the time she pulled a 5 lb roast out of the crockpot while it was still cooking.  Or the Christmas she ate 3 and a half dozen chocolate chip cookies.  But she more than made up for it by providing our family safety and security with her mere presence and German Shepherd Dog nature. 

From the time we adopted Freyja, till her death, Mike deployed to Afghanistan four times.  In addition, there've been literally dozens of other trips he's made for weeks, sometimes months, at a time.  I never once during that time had a sleepless night, frightened that someone might break in.  I was pregnant, had three young children and Mike's elderly parents while Mike was in Kabul and we all slept safely and soundly knowing that Freyja was on the job.  

Once, I had a flat tire on my jogging stroller and I couldn't get the pump to work.  I took it up to the local gas station just blocks from our house to throw myself at the mercy of the mechanics that worked there.  

"Can somebody help me fix my jogging stroller?  It has a flat tire and my husband is in Afghanistan and won't be back for months.  I live right up the street, there, and it's just me and my kids and none of us know how to fix this.  We're all alone till my husband comes back, but that's not for 4 months and I don't know what to do..." 

I trailed off, suddenly realizing that I had just announced to group of men I didn't know that not only was my husband gone and the kids and I alone, but that I lived just a hop away.  As I mentally berated myself for my stupidity, I realized they were paying no attention to me.  They were all staring at something.  I followed their gaze and saw that Freyja had jumped into the driver's side and was hanging 3/4 of her torso out of the open window.  She looked fierce.  Nobody was going to come near me, my kids, my house, or, sadly, my jogging stroller while Freyja was on the job. 

Our neighbors hated her.  She took her job of securing the perimeter very seriously.  If even I was on the other side of the fence, she barked.  Freyja particularly didn't like one neighbor, Billy.  The feeling was mutual.

"I'm going to put a bullet in that fucking dog's head the next time she's out here alone," he threatened one beautiful, sunny afternoon.

"Your aim isn't that good.  You couldn't get close enough," I chuckled.  "She's trained to keep people like you at bay."

Every time the kids were scared of monsters in their closet or ghosts under their bed, we would bring Freyja in to sleep with them.  When we moved to Illinois, she would accompany them on adventures into the wood line.  Again, her mere presence was enough to ward off the coyotes who lived there.  I doubt she'd ever fight a coyote and if Billy had ever so much as raised a hand to her, she would have cowered.  But she struck a threatening pose and sounded ferocious.  

She kept us safe from threats real or imagined with her facade of savage aggression.  

In reality, however, Mike called her a French Shepherd.  They're like the German kind, but they're pussies.  Freyja was afraid of wind, of gunfire and firecrackers, of small children, cars and trucks driving by, Billy, and the vacuum.  She would whine and cry to come back inside when let out into the yard, and, when on her adventures with the kids in the wood line, would inevitably run back home, barking at me to let her back in.  She fancied herself an indoor dog, for sure. 

When we brought Skadi home at 6 weeks old, I fully expected there to be problems.  Freyja was an attention hound and I figured she'd be none too thrilled to have to compete with a cute puppy.  Oh, how very wrong I was.  

Freyja immediately transformed into a mother role.  She played with Skadi, let her drink from the water bowl first, slept with her, and kept her clean.  I have never seen another dog of mine mother a new puppy like Freyja did.  She stepped up in ways I never imagined she was capable.  They were impossibly close, relying on one another for comfort and support and entertainment.  

So it was that when Freyja was diagnosed, Dan recommended we manage Freyja's pain until we safely got Skadi to Seoul.  He was afraid that Skadi would be sent along on this two day, multi plane adventure depressed and grief stricken.  So Freyja stayed strong for the duration, happy to go for walks and to sleep with her pup in the kennel.  When Skadi arrived here, Dan said that he'd keep Freyja as long as her pain was still manageable.  

It wasn't even a week later that Daniel called me and said, "It's time."

On a beautiful autumn day, our sweet girl, our guardian, protector, and teammate, our Freyja passed from this world to the next leaving our pack heartbroken and mourning.  There's always that inevitable discussion of whether dogs have souls and whether their souls go to heaven.  For anyone who has ever loved a dog, there's no question.  I know I will see my girls again.  All of them.  Patty, Sheba, Vikki, Candy, Alyx, Freyja.  Even Truman, the bastard.  Because, to paraphrase Will Rogers, if they don't go to heaven, then I want to go where they are.  To run my hand through their coats and nuzzle their ears and rest easy with them.  For with a dog, one finds heaven.

My Dearest Freyja,

I am so sorry that I could not hold up my end of our bargain when you worked so hard to live up to your end.  You trained and obeyed and followed us against your nature to become a part of our family.  I was to be there for you when the end came and I wasn't.  Nothing could have changed the way it played out.  I know you were with Daniel and that he loved you like his own.  I know you felt safe and loved with the sun shining on you and a breeze ruffling your furry, diseased, and all too young body.  I hope you saw us in your dreams, knowing that our love was with you, filling your heart.  

Thank you for being you, for keeping us safe, for keeping us on our toes, for making us laugh, and for loving our kids.  Run free, baby.  Mama loves you, Freyja Spring, you naughty thing.  I'll see you on the other side.  Don't eat all the cookies before I get there.

Aloha, 

Mama