Black and White Sundays and The Music That Moves Him

"Do not mistake me for my mask. You see the light dappling on the water and forget the deep, cold dark beneath." - Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind

I often get asked where Bast's name comes from. Because it's too difficult to get into for casual conversation, I usually answer with a dismissive, "It's a character in a book I like," an answer that's true enough, but I thought I'd explain fully why I chose his name.

First things first, if you're a fan of the fantasy literature genre (fantasy as in swords and dragons, not sexual fantasy... you kinky thing, you...) and you haven't read Patrick Rothfuss's The Name of the Wind, you are missing out on a beautiful piece of story-telling. Get thee to a Barnes and Noble or the Amazon store and get a copy. I'll see you in a week or two, if you don't perish of sleep loss from staying up all night for just one more page.

In The Name of the Wind, a tepid innkeeper tends his hostel, assisted by his mischievous, black-haired apprentice Bastas. Of course, as is the way of fantasy novels, the mild-mannered innkeeper is hiding something sinister, and his charming assistant is really the Prince of the Fae, masquerading as a human to stay close to his not-so-mild-mannered-after-all companion.

Before I met my kismet in a certain Craigslist ad, I already had a wee bit of a crush on the Bastas in NOTW. Okay, that's probably pretty mild; I'm kind of in love with him. Don't judge.

I mean, what's not to love about a dashing, handsome, clever prince posing as a human to hide his magical origins? Right?

Anyway, when I first saw, in person, the dog that would become my Bast, he took my breath away in a literal sense. I remember seeing him leap out of the truck that brought him to me, all legs and elbows. His uncanny grace at only 9 months old, his brilliant orange stare, the way his gaze was just a little too sharp to be what I was used to from a dog.

I saw him and thought, "Yes... Now I understand. Here is a creature that takes on the mask of something familiar, something more comfortable for humans to see, but it slips from time to time and in between the lines, you can see the depths it hides."

What I said aloud was, "Oh, holy shit."

I am indeed a poet.

I hope it's not too pretentious, but I wanted to include one of my favorite paragraphs from Name of the Wind, the one I thought of when I saw that graceful, breath-taking halfling stride into my life. I hope that, for those who know and love my Bastas, you'll see why my half-fae prince couldn't have had any other name.

Bast leaned closer until their faces were mere inches apart, his eyes white as opal, white as a full-bellied moon. "You are an educated man. You know there are no such things as demons," Bast smiled a terrible smile. "There is only my kind." Bast leaned closer still, Chronicler smelled flowers on his breath. "You are not wise enough to fear me as I should be feared.

"You do not know the first note of the music that moves me."

Saturday Morning Cartoons

Back to your regularly scheduled silly Bast stories.

Aside from Bast, I have a few other pets, including two chinchillas, three small parrots, and a goldfish I won at the fair. Because I'm incapable of picking out normal pets, one of the chinchillas is missing his back foot and the toes off the other foot, one of the parrots has tail feathers that grow sideways, and the goldfish is a goldfish I won at the fair, which makes it weird enough.

As you can imagine, running this menagerie around a wolfdog can be a lot of extra work. Wolfdogs have notoriously high prey drives. Now, "high prey drive" does not mean "vicious killing machine" - it just means that if they see something running, they just gotta chase it.

Luckily for us, Bast isn't very interested in my other critters, since he doesn't interact with them often. He's a little afraid of the chinchillas - the older one is mean as hell and bites Bast if the dog is foolish enough to put his face close to their cage - and it was very easy to teach him that the parrots aren't toys, either, because they also bite the everliving shit out of him if given half a chance.

Prince of the Forest, but not of the household

I thought that Bast was indifferent to the parrots, since he's not allowed to either eat or play with them, but I thought wrong.

Last night, Bast came trotting in from the back door, which I leave open in evenings for the cool breeze. Since Bast regularly darts in and out of the house on his wolfy little errands - stealing things, hiding food - I don't normally pay much attention to his comings and goings except to glance up and be sure he hasn't stolen something important.

On this particularly Bast errand, he stalked across the living room and stood sentinel in front of the parrot cages. It isn't like him to be still for very long, so after a minute or two, I glanced up to see what his issue was. Bast stared, head low, intently peering underneath the parrot cages, from where I could hear a soft fluttering sound...

I stood up and walked over with a sense of dismay rising. Yes, there was definitely a rustling noise coming from under the bird cage. I got on hands and knees to peer under and discovered what Bast's errand was...

A small, slightly slobbery, and very terrified female sparrow was spazzing out underneath the cages. Bast had brought a LIVE BIRD into the house and, I guess logically, put it with the other birds.

Like, "Hey! You like these, right? I brought you another one. This is where birds go."

Bast, always eager to help, had assumed the same army-crawl position as me and was scootching up towards his new friend. I shrieked at him to get back, and he gave me one confused - but definitely not ashamed or concerned - glance before backing up to his haunches to wait.

After some finagling, I was able to get the poor, terrified sparrow out from under the cages. Unfortunately she flew straight up the chimney, which Bast let me know by bounding over to the fireplace and giving off one loud and very unhelpful WOOF.

By the time I got the sparrow caught, I was covered in ashes, Bast was tap dancing in glee, and the poor bird was shaking in fear. I didn't want to release her immediately, since she was exhausted, so we let her rest in one of my spare cages, which I hastily snatched from the shed and dusted off.

No, Bastas. I don't need any more birds, but thank you. That was misguidedly sweet.

We released the little gal outside, where she promptly winged the hell out of here, not that I blame her. But for all her fear, what blows my mind is Bast managed to carry in such a delicate creature without harming a feather on her body. She was barely even slobbery. He must have been so careful with her, not only in catching her but then in bringing her inside.

He's like Snow White the Idiot Savant or something.

Say No to Wolfdog Stereotypes!

One of the saddest bits of having a wolfdog is the rampant stigmatization of the "breed" - I put breed in quotes because wolfdogs aren't really a breed, but it's really the best term to use for simplicity's sake.

Wolfdogs get a bad rep in just about every section. You can blame it on scare-tactic oriented media, or people holding onto medieval fears about wolves, or people who misrepresent their aggressive shepherd/husky mixes as wolfdogs, but all in all it boils down to a lot of misinformation and ignorance and there's no one single responsible party.

Something we deal with almost constantly in Life with Bast is people's fear and prejudice against him, not only for his traditionally "scary" looks ('cuz he does kinda look like The Grim) but also for what he is. People seem to lose their minds when they hear the "W" Word. They only remember The Big Bad Wolf of their childhood and ignore the sweet, docile animal in front of their eyes.

I have a hard time being afraid of this face, but it's probably because I had to wipe his butt when he was sick as a puppy.

One of the stigmas that breaks my heart the most is "wolf hybrids are aggressive." If you look this myth up, you'll find untold amounts of webpages saying the same thing: wolfdogs have a "war" in their heads, wolfdogs are "wild animals", wolfdogs have high bite reports. The problem with all of these reports is that it is very, very hard, most of the time impossible, to verify whether the animals responsible for these reports are actually wolfdogs at all.

Misrepresentation is one of the biggest issues in the wolfdog world. Because most people have never seen a wolfdog, they don't know what they look like and can be easily fooled by unscrupulous breeders. German shepherd - husky crosses can produce animals that have a "wolfy" look to them - although, if you ask most people what looking "wolfy" means, they probably can't answer you.

Even for experienced people, it can sometimes be difficult to tell the difference between a low content wolfdog and a simple shepherd/husky cross, or even pure bred huskies in many cases. Racing line huskies can get some crazy looks to them:

Source: http://wolfdogproject.com/grayarea.htm

Looks pretty wolfy, yeah? Most people wouldn't question that animal if it were claimed as a wolfdog, because most people don't know what characteristics wolfdogs have in order to judge.

Now take that problem to the streets. You have people all across the country throwing together shepherds, huskies, and malamutes to try to create animals that "look wolfy" so they can jack up their prices by a few hundred dollars. This leads to LOADS of people with animals that they claim as wolf hybrids or wolfdogs when in reality, the animal has no more wolf in it than your average poodle.

See how this is a problem for bite statistics?

People often mistake wolfdogs as being aggressive, and the part of this that's so sad to me is that the belief that woofers are aggressive could not be further from the truth. Wolfdogs, almost as a rule, are extraordinarily shy, timid creatures. It's one of their most defining characteristics; often, when someone claims that their "wolf hybrid" is aggressive or protective, it's one of the biggest red flags that the animal actually probably has no wolf in it at all, because it is simply not in their nature to be that way. For many breeders involved with wolfdogs, their timidity is one of their worst attributes and is something that requires very careful breeding selection to change - a process that can and has taken decades in some cases, as in the case of the very beautiful Blue Bay Shepherds.

There are exceptions to every rule, but in the case of protective wolfdogs, it's really, really rare - for all that he clearly loves me, I haven't a single doubt in my mind that if someone rushed to attack me on the streets while walking Bast, he would take off like his ass was on fire and leave me to my fate.

My, what long legs you have! All the better to save my own ass while you get stabbed, my dear.

To illustrate that Bast is not an atypical wolfdog, I asked a group of other wolfdog owners to share stories of their own woofers getting the crap scared out of them (literally in some cases).

Many of the stories are humorous...

"Remmy honestly has ever been spooked by furries [people wearing animal costumes]..."

Or in Bast's case, snowmen. This one in particular made him so scared, he wouldn't go outside anymore and just peed in the house until it melted:

I think its eyes were made of pee.

Or another friend's low content wolfdog, Echo...

"Echo is scared of rabbits and squirrels. If he sees one, he will tear off to hide behind me or try to get into the car or house."

Wolfdogs spook at the weirdest things. Anything out of the ordinary is scary and must be approached with caution:

"Aspen is afraid of cars that aren't parked in their normal spots on our street. When we go for a walk and someone has company, they park on the side of the road... That's not okay."

Other stories are not so funny and highlight how fragile these animals can be...

"Keeta pooped herself in PetSmart because someone didn't listen and tried to approach her anyways..."

Woofer owners have to have a closet full of reassurance and coping mechanisms to help especially fearful woofers...

"Try carrying a 60 pound baby that's crying and pissing on both you and herself because a stranger came too quickly up to her."

I wish these stories were atypical, but this is often the reality of daily life with a wolfdog, especially rescued wolfdogs that come from terrible backgrounds. Wolfdogs are single-event learners - all it takes is one bad owner beating them and they can be irreparably broken.

Bast is very special and unique in many ways, but his timidness and non-confrontational attitude is not. That is the way of most woofers, who would much rather be friends if you'll give them a chance.

I know everyone loves Bast's silly stories, and I do try not to be a Debbie Downer very often, but I hope that next time you hear someone saying "wolf hybrids are dangerous and aggressive", you'll remember my sweet boy and think twice about believing everything you hear.

No Good, Dirty Rotten, Low Down, Thieving Wolves

I get asked a lot if wolfdogs make good pets. This is a funny question to ask, because different sets of owners will give you different answers. For people that have animals that aren't actually wolfdogs and are really just shepherd/husky mixes, the answer is usually yes. Oh, they're protective, they're loyal, they're great dogs, my great uncle's dog's brother's owner had a wolf and it was the best pet and it chased off a robber and cured cancer and flew to the moon and and and....

And so on and so forth, ad nauseum.

If you ask people who actually have wolfdogs if they make good pets, the answer is usually some variation of, "No, they're bad pets, but I like them anyway." This is because we all have varying degrees of Stockholm Syndrome and are very attached to our expensive, neurotic, demanding, and capricious animals.

Let me tell you, Bast is a bad pet. I love him, but he is a nightmare to live with. It's hard to describe exactly why he's such a monster, but you can kind of put it in terms of other animals' characteristics.

Take the independence, aloofness, and don't-give-a-shit-what-you-want personality of a cat. Add to it the intelligence, energy, and determination of a dog. Then give it a ferret's pathological, compulsive need to destroy and steal things, add about 60 pounds, and you have Bastas.

Surely not. This face would never be a bad pet. Right...?

Bast's thieving tendencies are equal parts adorable and obnoxious. He steals everything - shoes, pens, pants, bras, apples, potatoes, silverware, books, paper bags, mops, leashes...

Klepto Canine

If I bury it, no one will know I took it...

Even when he steals food, he doesn't really want to eat it. He just wants to take it and hide it. For the first year we had him, Bast stole from the pantry on a daily basis. He would get into the pantry, take things, and then cache them around my place, so it became a daily occurrence to be sifting through laundry and have to get up and take a pair of potatoes back to the kitchen.

If he caught you taking anything back, often he would wait until your attention turned and then steal it back.

He got really upset with me one time because I kept putting a bell pepper back in the kitchen, whereas he insisted it needed to stay in my bedroom.

Gettin' real sick of my shit here...

For a while, he had a thing for putting his purloined treasure in my bed. I would  crawl into bed at night only to discover something he hid under one of my pillows during the day.

The drain plug for the tub, for instance...

Another time, he was exceptionally industrious and stored a jar of raw honey, a rib bone, and the dust pan in my blankets while I was at work...

Not all of it was bad, though. This one was pretty rad. Thanks, dude

Some of it was just beyond foul, though. The food hoarding could occasionally get out of hand, such as this time he stored several WHOLE TROUT under my THROW PILLOWS KJHKADHFKDD:

I'd like to say his thieving has stopped as he's gotten more comfortable and secure with me, but now it's just changed tactics. Whereas previously, he stole seemingly out of a need to hide treasure for later, now he steals to get my attention, because he knows running outside with my favorite Gianni Bini heels in his mouth will get a reaction every time...

So if you ask me if wolfdogs are good pets, that answer from me is unequivocally, emphatically, resoundingly: no.

Black and White Sundays

Saccharine Overload

We're about to go heavy on the sugar, so if you're an emotional diabetic, beware this post.

Before I got Bastas, he was rehomed somewhere around 9 times. Now, to rehash this, he was about 9 months old when we got him. That means, before he was 10 months old he was:

1. Bred by a scumbag BYB who let a lot of Bast's siblings die of worms and neglect
2. Taken in by a rescue
3. Rehomed to a family who tried to sell him on Hoobly as a high content wolfdog for $1,000...

   

   Rotating pictures is hard, apparently...

4. Repoed by the rescue
5. Adopted out to a girl in my state
6. Taken to the pound
7. Adopted out to another family
8. Taken back to the pound
9. Adopted by me

So it's no wonder he's a little... addled...

The face of psychosis.

One of his previous owners began training Bast as an emotional support animal. There was, as I understand, no small amount of drama over this - and by "drama", I really mean, "Members of the service dog community acted like vicious twats and threatened Bast's life over it."

I wish I were kidding about that.

Anyway, I haven't reinforced this training, not because I agree with the greasy farts in the SD community that wolfdogs should be killed for being ESAs (one of Bast's sisters passed the AKC Canine Good Citizenship test with flying colors, something that most regular dogs can't even do...) but because I'm lazy and that's a lot of work.

On occasion, Bast shows that he remembers some of his training without any reinforcement, however. Last summer, I was diagnosed with cervical cancer and on one particularly emotional phone call from my doctor, I slid down to the floor in my kitchen and cried into my hands. Despite me not making much noise, Bast somehow knew and came to sit by me and nose his way into my face to give me a kiss. I was, of course, cheered right up - when Bast puts the charm on, he's an irresistible creature.

You're about to get charmed so hard.

Last night, I jolted upright in bed, still basically asleep. I guess I must have woken from some nightmare, although I don't remember a bit of it, because I opened my mouth and let out the loudest, most unearthly banshee shriek I've ever produced. Still asleep, I was helpless to stop making this sound - after I ran out of breath, I gasped for air and continued wailing. I didn't know I could even make that noise, and not being able to stop frightened me even more than whatever night vision I escaped by waking.

What saved me was a dark, furry cannon ball that blasted into my chest and knocked me back into the headboard. With all the air forced out of my lungs, I stopped making that horrible cry and wrapped my arms around Bast's narrow torso. Although I shifted to try to get him to the side of me, he planted himself on my chest and sat on me until I stopped shaking.

I don't remember drifting off to sleep, but at some point he must have moved back to his bed on the floor, because I woke to him snuffling my elbow and gracing me with his morning breath.

For all the stress, exhaustion, expense, and heartbreak of having an emotionally damaged wolfdog, I have never once regretted impulsively snatching him out of the pound and keeping him. It's not often that you can look back at a decision and say, "That was absolutely the right thing to do," but I think Bastas may be the only thing I've done perfectly right in my life.

Black and White Sundays

Black and White Sundays

Excavations

Moving into a house with a yard awoke the ground squirrel living in Bast's brain. He's been hard at work digging to China for the past month.

A lot of wolfdogs dig. And I mean, they dig. Not just a scratched-out wallow in the dirt or a half-hearted hole for hording treasure - all out, den-building, call-of-the-wild type of mining. 

Bast's digging started simple. He warmed up a bit when we had a major plumbing leakage the first month we moved in. A delightful mess of poopy sewage flooded out of the clean-out pipe on the side of the house, and of course Prince Charming here had to go claw through the stanky swamp of TP and dook that volcanoed out into the yard.

Now, as gross as that was, the sewage got fixed and I don't really mind him digging out back. I can always take a shovel and fill it in. What concerned me was him digging near the fence, so we took the time to install some dig guard to keep him from getting curious about World Beyond the Fence.

As you can see, he was less than thrilled.

Bast digging near a point of egress was deterred, but he moved his excavations elsewhere and just dug weird little trenches in the ground before settling on a spot for a depth charge.

Down the rabbit hole.

I wondered what was so great about that spot, until he dug a little bit deeper and uncovered some sort of thin PVC pipe.

You can't see it in these pics, but this hole is probably two and a half feet deep at this point.

In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.

I don't know what the pipe does and frankly, I don't want to know. I tried everything I could read to get him to stop digging there. I filled in the hole over and over. I sprinkled crushed red pepper flakes into what I filled in. I poured cayenne into it. I buried his poop in it. I buried large rocks in it. Nothing. Every time, he would dig it back out. I finally gave up. He isn't bothering the pipe and has actually started to hollow out the den in the opposite direction, so I guess screw it. He can dig to China, then.

I was going to try to stuff myself down there to give you an idea of how deep it is, but I was on my hands and knees before remembering - "Oh yeah, I shoveled a whole bunch of dog turds in here..."

I am not smart.

So proud.