Raven Barks at the Invisible

The Naturalist, February 11, 2020

There is something unquestionably strange, and potentially disturbing, about this dog. She is highly intelligent. I was able to teach her to fetch within the first week of owning her, and my daughter has taught her a dozen tricks since then. Yet, she is also quite willful and resists even basic obedience training. She holds strong loyalty and affection for members of the family, but is highly aggressive toward anyone else. It's gotten to where we can't invite anyone over for fear she might actually bite them.

She seems to love the cold. We had heavy snow last month, and she would go out in the yard and lay down in the middle of it. She would stay that way for hours, basking in the cold, sometimes with the snow falling all around her. Even when I tried to get her inside, she would ignore me and lie back down, blissfully snuggling in deeper.

She is also very strong. A couple of days ago, it was evening, but the weather had warmed just enough that the snow was beginning to melt. I'd seen a skunk in the yard a couple of nights ago, so I had taken the dog outside on a leash instead of just letting her out on her own. I was turned, facing the house, and she had walked behind me.

Suddenly, the leash went taught, jerking my arm backward. The line snapped and I stumbled a little with the changes in force. Recovering quickly, I turned around but Raven had already claimed her prize. She casually trotted back to me, holding a small animal in her mouth. She shook it in her jaws one more time for good measure and then tossed it dead at my feet. I looked down at the animal, it was a small skunk. There was little blood, but the body was bent at odd angles, its neck and back broken from the shaking. It had happened so fast that the skunk hadn't even had the chance to spray. I looked back at the dog, who sat on her haunches a few feet away, waiting. Calming myself, I called her back inside and then went back out and disposed of the animal's body.

The next day, I purchased a stronger leash, but I have the feeling that she could break this one if she wanted to as well, that when I take her out, she is only allowing me to use the leash with her and at any point she could simply change her mind. I might be able to write all of this off as merely the extreme ends of German shepherd personality and tendencies, if it wasn't for what happened earlier this evening.

The sun had just gone down, but the horizon still held some of its remaining glow, streaking the sky in somber orange tears against the gray. The air was crisp and it was cold enough that I could see my breath as I walked out on to the deck. Raven ran past me and jumped off the steps, only to stop at a nearby tree to sniff and explore. I idly watched her as the light continued to fade, letting my thoughts drift as my gaze followed her meandering path through the yard.

Then, as the last of the day's light was almost spent, Raven turned toward me and snapped to attention. She gave a single sharp bark and then sprinted, aiming for a position several meters forward and to the left of where I stood. She reached the spot before I could even call out to her, then turned her back to me and began barking frantically toward the corner of the yard on that side. There was still enough light to give me a dim view of both the length of our yard and into the neighbors, but I couldn't, for the life of me, see what she was barking at. I took the three steps down the stairs from the deck to the grass below and Raven adjusted her position, staying between me and whatever perceived threat she felt was out there.

I continued to scan the area, trying to see if some animal or person had wandered onto ours or the neighbor's property, but still found nothing. I tried calling to Raven in an effort to calm her, but her barking merely rose in intensity and for a moment grew so loud I had to resist the instinct to clap my hands to my ears. My heart pounded with adrenaline as I called to her again, trying to make my voice heard above hers.

Then abruptly she stopped. She stood at her guard for several more seconds, then gave a low, growling snort and walked back to me. I cautiously reached down to pet her head as she approached and she affectionately pushed up against my leg with her flank. The last of the light had slipped away and I stood there for some time, petting the dog, while still straining to find something out there in the dark. Finally, I dropped my hand and let some of my tension drain.

"Let's go in," I said.

Then we both turned and walked back into the house. It was still early, but after we came in I bolted the door behind me.