risestar
05-17-2009, 09:31 AM
By RENA DELBRIDGE
(Published May 17, 2009)
FAIRBANKS, Alaska — One hundred pounds of pure white fluff - times two - greet all comers to David and Marilyn Guttenbergs' temporary Juneau home.
A state representative, David is in session with the Legislature for months of each year, hundreds of miles from his Fairbanks home. But with Marilyn and the couple's two Great Pyrenees traveling alongside, home becomes more a matter of where the heart is. With the Guttenbergs, that clearly means wherever they and their dogs are.
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Both animals were rescued from less than ideal situations, and the Guttenbergs have trained themselves how to bring out the best in both dogs, instilling trust where little once existed.
The canines embraced Juneau's mild, snowy winters. Ofi, an 11-year-old male, discovered a talent for skiing, racing down steep hills and leaping, burying his head in the white fluff and blazing a tunnel downslope.
But it wasn't always puppy paradise. Lily, a four-year-old female, arrived in the Guttenbergs' world emaciated, untrusting and
unsocialized.
"She just had the saddest, most forlorn look," Marilyn said. "There was no life in her eyes. "Now, she's got a twinkle," said David. "Before we met her, if I'd have known. ..."
"We'd have really had to think about it," Marilyn acknowledged. "While some people look at her and see a dog with a lot of problems, we look at how far we've come."
When David married Marilyn, he knew he was making Ofi part of the family as well. That was four years, six months and three days ago, David said, turning a smile to his bride, who rewarded his romanticism with a warm look.
"He's slipping," Marilyn said. "He used to know the hours. ... It was love me, love my dog."
"And that was easy," David interjected.
"They bonded so well," she said. "I tell him now he stole my dog from me."
Now 11, the Great Pyrenees came into Marilyn's life as a puppy when she lived in Missouri.
In Fairbanks, the Guttenbergs live on some land in the hills, next door to David's sister. Ofi never leaves the property, but takes regular treks around the perimeter, guarding the home turf much as his sheep dog ancestors would patrol the ranch perimeters to protect their flocks.
"He had a hard life," Marilyn said. "He has a good life now and wants to stay home."
That's not to say the dogs have shed their genetic dispositions.
"We've watched the hard-wiring come out," David said.
Barks announce to all comers their presence. They routinely mark their turf, especially around the perimeters. And they do push their flocks around, albeit flocks of people instead of sheep.
Traditionally, Great Pyrenees are pros at defensive posturing, preferring to ward off potential threats than fight. They're known to charge targets, ramming the foe with a solid shoulder force that stuns. Often used corralling sheep in harsh, mountainous terrain, a pair could keep a pack of wolves at bay. Studded collars would protect the dogs' most critical area, the neck, against knife-sharp incisors.
Wanting another Pyrenees to keep Ofi company, Marilyn joined online chats and explored adopting a grown dog with a similar energy level. Despite the potential for a good home, no one was willing to ship a Pyrenees to Alaska. She struck out on one after another.
As Marilyn nearly lost hope, she received a response from a breeder with a three-year-old in need of a good home. She was searching on behalf of a family who'd bought the dog as a pup, but now was embroiled in a divorce.
"Nobody had time for Lily," Marilyn recounted.
The Guttenbergs did.
They spent hours asking about Lily's health and socialization skills, problem behaviors, favorite toys and games. Ofi was an alpha dog, and they knew an addition would have to be less dominant. Lily sounded ideal.
"Everything was perfect," Marilyn said.
Suddenly the other issues didn't seem so serious. The Guttenbergs move to Juneau each year for the legislative session, which used to last six months. Marilyn was on epidurals pending back surgery. The time was approaching for the annual journey to Juneau. A new dog would have to fit in, and quickly. Lily seemed just right.
They spent $1,000 to fly Lily from New York City, and several hundred dollars for a vet check prior to takeoff.
After 18 hours in the air, Lily landed on a Saturday morning, kennel immaculate but the dog a mess.
Her bones were protruding. Her eyes sunk deeply in their sockets. She weighed just 63 pounds, far from her ideal weight of 90 to 100 pounds. Her long, dense coat was a snarl of dreadlocks that took Marilyn a year and a half to work through.
"We were furious," Marilyn said. She and David called the vet who'd given Lily a bill of health to fly.
"The vet told us this is a rescue, not an adoption," Marilyn said.
"He felt it was important to get her away from those people."
Sadly, the emaciated animal came with papers and a fine pedigree, the Guttenbergs said. Lily had 19 champion show dogs in her lineage.
The dog's condition worsened. A solid diet caused explosive diarrhea, thanks to an undiagnosed intestinal infection.
With a mere 10 days to make sure Lily and Ofi were compatible before the 700-mile drive and ferry ride to the capital city, the Guttenbergs quickly found the two disliked each other, intensely.
"They're fighting, they hate each other and we have to partition off the house to keep them apart," Marilyn said. "We lived like this for 10 days."
For more than a week, Marilyn kept Ofi upstairs as she packed for Juneau, while David tended to Lily downstairs. He would sleep next to Lily at night, engulfed in Carhartts and bunny boots, rolled in a sheepskin rug for warmth as temperatures outside plummeted well below zero. Every two hours for 10 days straight, Lily would nudge David awake for a rush outside.
With her health improving, David and his brother braved 40 below temperatures to make a go at companionship between Lily and Ofi. Suiting up in winter gear, they'd walk the pair a mile up the road together, the men in between the dogs at first.
"The dogs got closer and closer and closer," David recalled. "They did it on their own, until they were touching, trotting down the road."
Now, they play together. They nuzzle and cuddle on occasion, although with strangers in the house, Lily prefers the security of a back room.
Slowly, Lily has learned how to be a dog, to follow commands and to trust.
"We've had to teach Lily canine language by learning canine language ourselves," Marilyn said. They've turned to books, TV shows, wherever they can gain information.
"Some things make sense to her, some things don't," David said. "We find out what works best and do that, repeatedly."
She's still not social with humans. When guests come by, the Guttenbergs try to ease some contact with Lily, who is reluctant but accepts the need. She'll allow a brief touch, a pat, before turning her back to that what scares her. She makes an anxious retreat to a back room when released.
The trials have been worth it. Lily has trodden a path straight to the Guttenbergs' hearts, especially as the dog learns to trust them to care for her. More and more often, she seems content.
"When the day is done, she comes out here," David said, gesturing around the living room. "She steps up one leg at a time, to the couch, and lays down. She exhales this big, heavy sigh, and takes her nap. ...
"She's found her family, and we are her flock."
(Published May 17, 2009)
FAIRBANKS, Alaska — One hundred pounds of pure white fluff - times two - greet all comers to David and Marilyn Guttenbergs' temporary Juneau home.
A state representative, David is in session with the Legislature for months of each year, hundreds of miles from his Fairbanks home. But with Marilyn and the couple's two Great Pyrenees traveling alongside, home becomes more a matter of where the heart is. With the Guttenbergs, that clearly means wherever they and their dogs are.
ADVERTISEMENT
Both animals were rescued from less than ideal situations, and the Guttenbergs have trained themselves how to bring out the best in both dogs, instilling trust where little once existed.
The canines embraced Juneau's mild, snowy winters. Ofi, an 11-year-old male, discovered a talent for skiing, racing down steep hills and leaping, burying his head in the white fluff and blazing a tunnel downslope.
But it wasn't always puppy paradise. Lily, a four-year-old female, arrived in the Guttenbergs' world emaciated, untrusting and
unsocialized.
"She just had the saddest, most forlorn look," Marilyn said. "There was no life in her eyes. "Now, she's got a twinkle," said David. "Before we met her, if I'd have known. ..."
"We'd have really had to think about it," Marilyn acknowledged. "While some people look at her and see a dog with a lot of problems, we look at how far we've come."
When David married Marilyn, he knew he was making Ofi part of the family as well. That was four years, six months and three days ago, David said, turning a smile to his bride, who rewarded his romanticism with a warm look.
"He's slipping," Marilyn said. "He used to know the hours. ... It was love me, love my dog."
"And that was easy," David interjected.
"They bonded so well," she said. "I tell him now he stole my dog from me."
Now 11, the Great Pyrenees came into Marilyn's life as a puppy when she lived in Missouri.
In Fairbanks, the Guttenbergs live on some land in the hills, next door to David's sister. Ofi never leaves the property, but takes regular treks around the perimeter, guarding the home turf much as his sheep dog ancestors would patrol the ranch perimeters to protect their flocks.
"He had a hard life," Marilyn said. "He has a good life now and wants to stay home."
That's not to say the dogs have shed their genetic dispositions.
"We've watched the hard-wiring come out," David said.
Barks announce to all comers their presence. They routinely mark their turf, especially around the perimeters. And they do push their flocks around, albeit flocks of people instead of sheep.
Traditionally, Great Pyrenees are pros at defensive posturing, preferring to ward off potential threats than fight. They're known to charge targets, ramming the foe with a solid shoulder force that stuns. Often used corralling sheep in harsh, mountainous terrain, a pair could keep a pack of wolves at bay. Studded collars would protect the dogs' most critical area, the neck, against knife-sharp incisors.
Wanting another Pyrenees to keep Ofi company, Marilyn joined online chats and explored adopting a grown dog with a similar energy level. Despite the potential for a good home, no one was willing to ship a Pyrenees to Alaska. She struck out on one after another.
As Marilyn nearly lost hope, she received a response from a breeder with a three-year-old in need of a good home. She was searching on behalf of a family who'd bought the dog as a pup, but now was embroiled in a divorce.
"Nobody had time for Lily," Marilyn recounted.
The Guttenbergs did.
They spent hours asking about Lily's health and socialization skills, problem behaviors, favorite toys and games. Ofi was an alpha dog, and they knew an addition would have to be less dominant. Lily sounded ideal.
"Everything was perfect," Marilyn said.
Suddenly the other issues didn't seem so serious. The Guttenbergs move to Juneau each year for the legislative session, which used to last six months. Marilyn was on epidurals pending back surgery. The time was approaching for the annual journey to Juneau. A new dog would have to fit in, and quickly. Lily seemed just right.
They spent $1,000 to fly Lily from New York City, and several hundred dollars for a vet check prior to takeoff.
After 18 hours in the air, Lily landed on a Saturday morning, kennel immaculate but the dog a mess.
Her bones were protruding. Her eyes sunk deeply in their sockets. She weighed just 63 pounds, far from her ideal weight of 90 to 100 pounds. Her long, dense coat was a snarl of dreadlocks that took Marilyn a year and a half to work through.
"We were furious," Marilyn said. She and David called the vet who'd given Lily a bill of health to fly.
"The vet told us this is a rescue, not an adoption," Marilyn said.
"He felt it was important to get her away from those people."
Sadly, the emaciated animal came with papers and a fine pedigree, the Guttenbergs said. Lily had 19 champion show dogs in her lineage.
The dog's condition worsened. A solid diet caused explosive diarrhea, thanks to an undiagnosed intestinal infection.
With a mere 10 days to make sure Lily and Ofi were compatible before the 700-mile drive and ferry ride to the capital city, the Guttenbergs quickly found the two disliked each other, intensely.
"They're fighting, they hate each other and we have to partition off the house to keep them apart," Marilyn said. "We lived like this for 10 days."
For more than a week, Marilyn kept Ofi upstairs as she packed for Juneau, while David tended to Lily downstairs. He would sleep next to Lily at night, engulfed in Carhartts and bunny boots, rolled in a sheepskin rug for warmth as temperatures outside plummeted well below zero. Every two hours for 10 days straight, Lily would nudge David awake for a rush outside.
With her health improving, David and his brother braved 40 below temperatures to make a go at companionship between Lily and Ofi. Suiting up in winter gear, they'd walk the pair a mile up the road together, the men in between the dogs at first.
"The dogs got closer and closer and closer," David recalled. "They did it on their own, until they were touching, trotting down the road."
Now, they play together. They nuzzle and cuddle on occasion, although with strangers in the house, Lily prefers the security of a back room.
Slowly, Lily has learned how to be a dog, to follow commands and to trust.
"We've had to teach Lily canine language by learning canine language ourselves," Marilyn said. They've turned to books, TV shows, wherever they can gain information.
"Some things make sense to her, some things don't," David said. "We find out what works best and do that, repeatedly."
She's still not social with humans. When guests come by, the Guttenbergs try to ease some contact with Lily, who is reluctant but accepts the need. She'll allow a brief touch, a pat, before turning her back to that what scares her. She makes an anxious retreat to a back room when released.
The trials have been worth it. Lily has trodden a path straight to the Guttenbergs' hearts, especially as the dog learns to trust them to care for her. More and more often, she seems content.
"When the day is done, she comes out here," David said, gesturing around the living room. "She steps up one leg at a time, to the couch, and lays down. She exhales this big, heavy sigh, and takes her nap. ...
"She's found her family, and we are her flock."
