Yesterday I actually managed to get myself and Petey out of the house. Weather was cold and gray again, which I'm more than sick of. We went to mom's house and she was a wreck. We had a good, old-fashioned screaming match, Italian style. I don't know what it is about mothers and daughters - we have the unique ability to make each other completely nuts. Petey got his first lesson in ignoring fireworks. My disagreements with Dick are not nearly so demonstrative or noisy.
Rascal, who has had a rather large tumor on his left stifle for quite some time has suddenly begun limping on that leg. Oh, boy. Poor old dog. I often think about the day I got him and his sister, Angel. It was shortly after New Year's, 1995. At the time, I was married to my ex, Tom, whose last name I still bear, and I was in one of the bluest funks I've ever endured. Two weeks before the previous Thanksgiving, I was hospitalized with severe pain in the lower right side of my chest. I spent a total of three weeks in two hospitals, suffering through several misdiagnoses, inappropriate treatment, some procedures which were nothing short of torture, not to mention the nurses who were afraid to give me the pain meds which I so desperately needed just to be able to breathe. The Medical Deities finally figured out that I probably had a pulmonary embolism, but by that time my lungs were so obscured with blood and fluid, they couldn't really say for sure.
Being hospitalized that long was quite inconvenient because at the time I had a little horse farm and several dogs and cats. One dog, Roseanne, was that one special dog that some people are lucky enough to have once in a lifetime. She was the sunniest little dog - life to her was a series of happy things, punctuated with bursts of unbridled glee. I've never known such a delightful dog before or since and I probably never will. She was my soul mate.
She was like that from day one. I got her from a breeder in Springfield. Drove down there one afternoon to pick her up, along with a sister I picked up for a fellow horse breeder in northern Illinois. I met the breeder at the state fairgrounds. Got there, pulled up the car, and this wonderful woman - I don't even recall what she looked like, handed me this squirmy, wiggly blue fur-ball and said, "Here's your puppy!" As I took her in my arms, she wagged, wiggled and licked me with a joy and passion that made me fall instantly in love with her. It was so ... her.
While I was hospitalized, Roseanne came up lame. Tom had let her out one night and she made her usual mad dash to the barn to roll the cats (it was her way of greeting them - they tolerated it well), and came back dangling her left hind leg. She was still lame when I came home. Turns out she had ruptured a cruciate ligament and needed surgery. My local vet had a visiting orthopedic surgeon, so we scheduled her surgery on a Friday afternoon. I brought her in, and I will never forget handing her over to the vet, whom she licked copiously about the face - she was the happiest little thing. I wasn't greatly worried - I'd done a lot of work assisting a vet friend of mine through a number of surgeries - so after dropping her off, Tom and I went out for dinner. When we got back to the house, I called to check up on her and my world caved in. Bad news. She'd had an anomalous reaction to the anesthetic and died on the table. Two or three breaths of isoflurane and that was it. She wasn't quite four years old.
I can tell you from experience that when someone wails in pain, either physically or emotionally, it is not voluntary, nor can it be controlled. It's something that comes from deep within. It rises then flows out - it's something that happens to you, not something you do, and it is something profound and primal. And I had experienced it twice in a month. Yipee. Lucky me.
Needless to say, the holidays sucked that year. I pretty much blew off Christmas - I just couldn't bring myself to cheerfully socialize with close and extended family and friends. Those were some of the darkest days of my life, and mostly what I remember is looking at that empty crate and dog bed and weeping inconsolably. I couldn't bring myself to take them down and put them away, but I couldn't bear to see them, either. My sunny, happy little dog was dead. I still cry when I think about it, and really, I don't cry.
By mid-January, when I was getting sick and tired of being sick and tired and couldn't stand to look at that empty crate anymore, a friend of mine gave me an ad in a farmers' newspaper - a nearby farmer had a litter of "heeler pups" for sale. I knew, of course, that no dog was going to replace my Roseanne, but I had an awful lot of love to give that needed an outlet.
The farmer's dogs had a large litter and about seven of them were left to choose from when Tom and I got there. They were living in a corn crib. One thing I knew for sure about my next puppy was that I wanted the one who most happy to see me, so I told him to just let them all out. As puppies do, they stampeded the door and got all in a tangle. Then one puppy, the smallest one, scrambled over the puppy pile and bounded toward me. "That's my dog!" I thought. And that would have been that, except Tom decided he wanted a puppy, too. Great. He selected a little female - the shy one, cowering in the corner. Not the dog I would have selected, but oh, well.
So, now when I look at poor Rascal, lumpy, fat, gray and incontinent, I think about that little puppy bounding out of the corn crib. At least he's had a longer life than Roseanne.
I digress. The subject of this post is "Progress." This morning when the coffeemaker beeper went off, Petey perked up, jumped on the sofa and nudged and pawed my hand. Yay! I then said "Where?" and started for the kitchen. He started to go ahead of me, but Nugget ran interference. Yeah, he's already figured out there's a treat involved. It's the reason why I really need to separate the other dogs when training Petey. But boy, this little guy gets it.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Sunday, November 25, 2007
By the Way....
... Petey has now alerted me several times to the beeper on the coffeemaker! Good job!
Ugh. (A non-dog-training post)
Disconcerting. That's about all I can say about the Thanksgiving holiday.
I really wish I could sit here and "blog" about the things I'm thankful for, and there are many as I think about it. But it's really difficult to enumerate them or even call them to mind when your attention and energy are being sucked into the black hole that happens when one family member is very ill with a brain disorder and another family member utterly fails to deal with it.
Dick and I enjoy cooking. Normally on holidays we cook at home, package up everything and tote it over to mom's, where we finish up some of the last-minute side dishes and serve dinner. This time I decided that since my mom needs some company, I'd roast the turkey at her house. It's not a mistake I'm likely to make again.
Regarding the dogs, I usually bring one - Piglet - and the rest get some quiet time at home. Piglet is the best one to bring because Rascal (mom's dog) doesn't want anything to do with my dogs and Piglet will not pester him. They totally ignore each other. It's the strangest thing. I raised Rascal and he was very well-socialized when I handed him over, but mom didn't maintain it - she kept him mostly at home, and he slipped back into the cowdog's characteristic aloofness. Funny, but after mom got him, he always remembered me when I visited, greeting me with great joy and enthusiasm. But the first time I brought another dog over (Sugar Baby), he spied the other dog, backed up, looked away and trotted off. He still hasn't forgiven me. Okay, that's anthropomorphizing, maybe, but that's sure the way it looks to me. Anyhow, Piglet pretends he doesn't exist and hence makes him less uncomfortable than the other dogs, who are quite friendly and sociable. She's not aggressive; she just has little use for dogs outside the pack.
I brought Piglet, as usual. Mother sprung dad from the nursing home for the first time since his placement. In my opinion, she brought him home WAYYYY too early - about four hours before dinner time. That's about two days in Alzheimer's time. Now, I don't care to write anything which my mother might find embarrassing, so I'll limit my observations to generalities. Let's just say that dad is no longer able to think logically, and mother has not accepted this. Not really. Her whole life has been about helping people. She is a licensed clinical social worker with an MSW and an undergrad degree in education. Throughout her career, she has helped people by guiding them to understand the illogic in their behavior and applying logic and reason to help them improve their lives. That's great for someone who has enough brain power to think logically, but it fails miserably with a brain-compromised person who can't remember the beginning of a sentence by the time you get to the end of it. Dad's mind, apparently, flits around in a sort of dreamlike state, grasping fleeting thoughts which immediately evaporate like bubbles in the air when you catch them. And, of course, he spews a lot of pre-programmed, stereotypical remarks based upon long-established behavior patterns (think of your grandmother saying things like "You're gonna put an eye out!" or "You'll fall and break your neck!"). The biggest problem is that he does not understand his illogic - from his point of view, he is the logical one and no one else seems able to get on the same page.
So now you have the scenario. Now put them in a room together for several hours, and what unfolds is a sort of black comedy - an endless stream of "Who's on First" routines and circular arguments as mother tries to push some magic button that will return my dad to the man he once was. My dad is trying to "talk some sense" into mother, who just doesn't get what he's saying. It's like the chimps in psychological experiments where the have to push a series of buttons in a certain order to get food, and once they get it, the experimenter changes the required sequence and the poor ape becomes frustrated and frantic, pushing buttons in random order with increasing frustration, ultimately whacking the machine and screaming. My mom, being the only one of the two who is capable of real logical thought, must be the one to stop the spin cycle, but she doesn't because her behavior patterns are too ingrained and she's too emotionally invested. There's nothing, apparently, that I can say or do to redirect her. It's like trying to stop a train wreck by grabbing the locomotive - in doing so, you become part of the wreck. So Dick and I just pretty much watched this vicious cycle unfold, occasionally exchanging owl-eyed glances and wondering how long it would take for one of them to resort to violence. They didn't, mostly because it isn't on their list of choices, but the gripping terror kept us pretty much on the edge of our seats. Strange to say, but there were actually moments that were close to hilarious, and it would have been if we weren't so close to the subjects.
It is now Sunday and I still haven't emotionally recovered. I am stunned - frustrated beyond words - unable to concentrate, ready to scream at the drop of a hat. It's not a good state of mind to be in when training a dog, and worse yet when you're managing a pack, especially one in flux AND during a full moon! The dogs pick up on it and their energy becomes as messed up as yours, leading to disharmony and misbehavior, which adds to my off-kilter state of mind. I'll get over it and I'll probably be okay within the next day or so - I will get Petey out today for a training walk and socialization, provided I can once again find my "Zen" place. That's hard to do, though, when you're in the spin cycle.
I'm reminded of the advice I got from that legendary dog trainer, "Captain" Arthur Haggerty, when I consulted with him on doing the movie with Piglet:
"Learn some relaxation exercises," he said. "You're going to need them."
So, in the memory of that great man (whom I sorely miss!), I will stand tall, feet somewhat apart, eyes closed, and brreeeaaaathe. Inhale through the nose as deeply as possible, hold it for a moment, exhale through the mouth slowly, releasing all the tension with that breath. Repeat.
Thanks, Cap.
I really wish I could sit here and "blog" about the things I'm thankful for, and there are many as I think about it. But it's really difficult to enumerate them or even call them to mind when your attention and energy are being sucked into the black hole that happens when one family member is very ill with a brain disorder and another family member utterly fails to deal with it.
Dick and I enjoy cooking. Normally on holidays we cook at home, package up everything and tote it over to mom's, where we finish up some of the last-minute side dishes and serve dinner. This time I decided that since my mom needs some company, I'd roast the turkey at her house. It's not a mistake I'm likely to make again.
Regarding the dogs, I usually bring one - Piglet - and the rest get some quiet time at home. Piglet is the best one to bring because Rascal (mom's dog) doesn't want anything to do with my dogs and Piglet will not pester him. They totally ignore each other. It's the strangest thing. I raised Rascal and he was very well-socialized when I handed him over, but mom didn't maintain it - she kept him mostly at home, and he slipped back into the cowdog's characteristic aloofness. Funny, but after mom got him, he always remembered me when I visited, greeting me with great joy and enthusiasm. But the first time I brought another dog over (Sugar Baby), he spied the other dog, backed up, looked away and trotted off. He still hasn't forgiven me. Okay, that's anthropomorphizing, maybe, but that's sure the way it looks to me. Anyhow, Piglet pretends he doesn't exist and hence makes him less uncomfortable than the other dogs, who are quite friendly and sociable. She's not aggressive; she just has little use for dogs outside the pack.
I brought Piglet, as usual. Mother sprung dad from the nursing home for the first time since his placement. In my opinion, she brought him home WAYYYY too early - about four hours before dinner time. That's about two days in Alzheimer's time. Now, I don't care to write anything which my mother might find embarrassing, so I'll limit my observations to generalities. Let's just say that dad is no longer able to think logically, and mother has not accepted this. Not really. Her whole life has been about helping people. She is a licensed clinical social worker with an MSW and an undergrad degree in education. Throughout her career, she has helped people by guiding them to understand the illogic in their behavior and applying logic and reason to help them improve their lives. That's great for someone who has enough brain power to think logically, but it fails miserably with a brain-compromised person who can't remember the beginning of a sentence by the time you get to the end of it. Dad's mind, apparently, flits around in a sort of dreamlike state, grasping fleeting thoughts which immediately evaporate like bubbles in the air when you catch them. And, of course, he spews a lot of pre-programmed, stereotypical remarks based upon long-established behavior patterns (think of your grandmother saying things like "You're gonna put an eye out!" or "You'll fall and break your neck!"). The biggest problem is that he does not understand his illogic - from his point of view, he is the logical one and no one else seems able to get on the same page.
So now you have the scenario. Now put them in a room together for several hours, and what unfolds is a sort of black comedy - an endless stream of "Who's on First" routines and circular arguments as mother tries to push some magic button that will return my dad to the man he once was. My dad is trying to "talk some sense" into mother, who just doesn't get what he's saying. It's like the chimps in psychological experiments where the have to push a series of buttons in a certain order to get food, and once they get it, the experimenter changes the required sequence and the poor ape becomes frustrated and frantic, pushing buttons in random order with increasing frustration, ultimately whacking the machine and screaming. My mom, being the only one of the two who is capable of real logical thought, must be the one to stop the spin cycle, but she doesn't because her behavior patterns are too ingrained and she's too emotionally invested. There's nothing, apparently, that I can say or do to redirect her. It's like trying to stop a train wreck by grabbing the locomotive - in doing so, you become part of the wreck. So Dick and I just pretty much watched this vicious cycle unfold, occasionally exchanging owl-eyed glances and wondering how long it would take for one of them to resort to violence. They didn't, mostly because it isn't on their list of choices, but the gripping terror kept us pretty much on the edge of our seats. Strange to say, but there were actually moments that were close to hilarious, and it would have been if we weren't so close to the subjects.
It is now Sunday and I still haven't emotionally recovered. I am stunned - frustrated beyond words - unable to concentrate, ready to scream at the drop of a hat. It's not a good state of mind to be in when training a dog, and worse yet when you're managing a pack, especially one in flux AND during a full moon! The dogs pick up on it and their energy becomes as messed up as yours, leading to disharmony and misbehavior, which adds to my off-kilter state of mind. I'll get over it and I'll probably be okay within the next day or so - I will get Petey out today for a training walk and socialization, provided I can once again find my "Zen" place. That's hard to do, though, when you're in the spin cycle.
I'm reminded of the advice I got from that legendary dog trainer, "Captain" Arthur Haggerty, when I consulted with him on doing the movie with Piglet:
"Learn some relaxation exercises," he said. "You're going to need them."
So, in the memory of that great man (whom I sorely miss!), I will stand tall, feet somewhat apart, eyes closed, and brreeeaaaathe. Inhale through the nose as deeply as possible, hold it for a moment, exhale through the mouth slowly, releasing all the tension with that breath. Repeat.
Thanks, Cap.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Waaa - HOOOOO!! Puppy Alerted to a Beeper!
It was like a miracle.
This morning, as usual, I got up and let dogs out, staggered into the kitchen a groped around in my usual, uncoordinated attempt to make coffee. Somehow, I managed. Brought dogs in. It usually takes a while for their "swirling" to dissipate, then everyone calms down and occupies themselves with their secret doggie thoughts and other pursuits.
Such was the routine today. Petey was ballistic this morning, launching himself at me like a bank of heat-seeking missiles - such is the way cowdog puppies share their love. He tried this not only with me, but with several of the adult dogs, who gruffed at him as only a dog can do, until I became the last remaining target. I told him NO. I told him "Knock it off!" I gave him a couple of mock hand-bites. I even growled at him - as low and deep a growl as I could muster - but he continuted his launching. I tried the growl again, but missed that low pitch, voice cracking into an uncharacteristically high-pitched "Arrrrgggggg...."
Bam! Pete hit the ground and rolled over on his back. Wow. A hands-free "alpha roll!" I thought, gee... dog language must have a component like Chinese, in which the pitch of the word portrays a meaning as well as the sound. One would think, in a human way, that lower is more menacing, but here I have proof positive that it just ain't so. I found myself wishing I had perfect pitch - that ability to identify the note musicians associate with a pitch. I had a musician friend who had it and it was amazing. We were strolling around an outdoor concert site once. A nearby car honked its horn. My friend looked up in the air, holding up an extended index finger, and announced, "That's a G!" Arrgghh... such talent. I'd love to be able to reproduce that magically-pitched growl that pastes puppies to the ground. Wouldn't that be a fun trick in puppy class? Forget labeling myself as a "dog whisperer" - I could be the "dog growler!" LOL... Lovely thought, but I'll just bet the pitch is different for different dogs. Still, I'd like to know if Pete's magic pitch is a G or a B or an E-flat.
(As an aside, my perfect-pitch friend told me that the different pitches sound like different colors look. I guess I hear in black and white, and I've secretly grieved my lack of musical perception ever since.)
Pete, after recovering from his belly-up groveling, found a toy to chew on as the entire group settled down. All was quiet and relaxed. Then the coffeemaker finished it's job, announcing itself with a soft beep - beep - beep - beep. Petey perked up, ears pricked forward, and charged into the kitchen! Holy moley... I was so surprised that it took me a moment to realize a.) what he had just done, and b.) the training opportunity.
"Pete, TOUCH!!" He charged back into the living room and nudged his nose in my palm. "Pete, PAWS!" He clawed at my hand and at my thighs. Good dog! I added one he doesn't know yet - "Pete, WHERE?" and I ran with him into the kitchen, grabbed a treat, placed both hands on the coffee pot and pretended to take the treat from that spot, repeating "WHERE? WHERE?" and tapping on the counter, "PAWS!" When he put his paws on the cabinet under the coffee pot, I said "YES!" and gave him the treat.
Meanwile, the other dogs were entirely non-plussed by this sudden flurry of activity. The two deafies missed the entire first part, but picked up on the rising energy level. Piglet trotted around the house on alert, looking for some trigger while Sugar Baby grabbed and attacked her teaser ball - her answer to most any excitement. My two energetic hearing hearing boys (Max and Nugget) swirled around Petey and me as he nudged and pawed at me, and appeared on the scene at the coffee pot, bracketing Petey like spring-loaded bookends, hoping that whatever it was that caused the excitement would involve treat-dispensing. Rodney the basset, I suppose, was lounging somewhere, appearing in the background only at treat-giving time. He springs into action only for the doorbell - coffee pots are not in his repertoire.
No question that Pete is the right dog for the job. I'm truly impressed.
This morning, as usual, I got up and let dogs out, staggered into the kitchen a groped around in my usual, uncoordinated attempt to make coffee. Somehow, I managed. Brought dogs in. It usually takes a while for their "swirling" to dissipate, then everyone calms down and occupies themselves with their secret doggie thoughts and other pursuits.
Such was the routine today. Petey was ballistic this morning, launching himself at me like a bank of heat-seeking missiles - such is the way cowdog puppies share their love. He tried this not only with me, but with several of the adult dogs, who gruffed at him as only a dog can do, until I became the last remaining target. I told him NO. I told him "Knock it off!" I gave him a couple of mock hand-bites. I even growled at him - as low and deep a growl as I could muster - but he continuted his launching. I tried the growl again, but missed that low pitch, voice cracking into an uncharacteristically high-pitched "Arrrrgggggg...."
Bam! Pete hit the ground and rolled over on his back. Wow. A hands-free "alpha roll!" I thought, gee... dog language must have a component like Chinese, in which the pitch of the word portrays a meaning as well as the sound. One would think, in a human way, that lower is more menacing, but here I have proof positive that it just ain't so. I found myself wishing I had perfect pitch - that ability to identify the note musicians associate with a pitch. I had a musician friend who had it and it was amazing. We were strolling around an outdoor concert site once. A nearby car honked its horn. My friend looked up in the air, holding up an extended index finger, and announced, "That's a G!" Arrgghh... such talent. I'd love to be able to reproduce that magically-pitched growl that pastes puppies to the ground. Wouldn't that be a fun trick in puppy class? Forget labeling myself as a "dog whisperer" - I could be the "dog growler!" LOL... Lovely thought, but I'll just bet the pitch is different for different dogs. Still, I'd like to know if Pete's magic pitch is a G or a B or an E-flat.
(As an aside, my perfect-pitch friend told me that the different pitches sound like different colors look. I guess I hear in black and white, and I've secretly grieved my lack of musical perception ever since.)
Pete, after recovering from his belly-up groveling, found a toy to chew on as the entire group settled down. All was quiet and relaxed. Then the coffeemaker finished it's job, announcing itself with a soft beep - beep - beep - beep. Petey perked up, ears pricked forward, and charged into the kitchen! Holy moley... I was so surprised that it took me a moment to realize a.) what he had just done, and b.) the training opportunity.
"Pete, TOUCH!!" He charged back into the living room and nudged his nose in my palm. "Pete, PAWS!" He clawed at my hand and at my thighs. Good dog! I added one he doesn't know yet - "Pete, WHERE?" and I ran with him into the kitchen, grabbed a treat, placed both hands on the coffee pot and pretended to take the treat from that spot, repeating "WHERE? WHERE?" and tapping on the counter, "PAWS!" When he put his paws on the cabinet under the coffee pot, I said "YES!" and gave him the treat.
Meanwile, the other dogs were entirely non-plussed by this sudden flurry of activity. The two deafies missed the entire first part, but picked up on the rising energy level. Piglet trotted around the house on alert, looking for some trigger while Sugar Baby grabbed and attacked her teaser ball - her answer to most any excitement. My two energetic hearing hearing boys (Max and Nugget) swirled around Petey and me as he nudged and pawed at me, and appeared on the scene at the coffee pot, bracketing Petey like spring-loaded bookends, hoping that whatever it was that caused the excitement would involve treat-dispensing. Rodney the basset, I suppose, was lounging somewhere, appearing in the background only at treat-giving time. He springs into action only for the doorbell - coffee pots are not in his repertoire.
No question that Pete is the right dog for the job. I'm truly impressed.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Weather is NOT COOPERATING!
I'm really getting sick of this. We've had chilly, windy, cloudy, drippy weather for about a week now, and it makes outdoor training quite unpleasant. I could really stand a little positive reinforcement from old Mother Nature.
At least we have gotten out enough for our training session to have the automatic sit pretty well down (about 4 out of 5) and are now working on adding the stay. I'd love to get some video, but it's just too gray and wet. I'd also like to get this little guy out into a field with a 100-foot drag line to play and practice random recalls, but folding up that much wet cord and attempting to dry it adequately is beyond my current energy level.
And Thanksgiving is coming up - that means all day at my mom's. Dick and I will be cooking Thanksgiving dinner there. In previous years, we've done that at home, packaged everything up and toted it over there, but this year we'd like to spend some time while the turkey is roasting to put up mom's Christmas tree - a task which she doesn't have the energy to complete on her own. It's a rough year for her. Plus, we'll be springing dad from the home for the first time since his admission and we don't know quite how he'll react. I expect some difficulty getting him back there.
So, wish me luck!
At least we have gotten out enough for our training session to have the automatic sit pretty well down (about 4 out of 5) and are now working on adding the stay. I'd love to get some video, but it's just too gray and wet. I'd also like to get this little guy out into a field with a 100-foot drag line to play and practice random recalls, but folding up that much wet cord and attempting to dry it adequately is beyond my current energy level.
And Thanksgiving is coming up - that means all day at my mom's. Dick and I will be cooking Thanksgiving dinner there. In previous years, we've done that at home, packaged everything up and toted it over there, but this year we'd like to spend some time while the turkey is roasting to put up mom's Christmas tree - a task which she doesn't have the energy to complete on her own. It's a rough year for her. Plus, we'll be springing dad from the home for the first time since his admission and we don't know quite how he'll react. I expect some difficulty getting him back there.
So, wish me luck!
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Pack Dynamics
Dogs are such fascinating creatures.
Pete's integration into the pack continues and I must admit that such things are stressy for me as well as for the other dogs. Sometimes I wish that I could adopt the attitude of some of the well-meaning but not-very-dog-savvy owners I know who a.) don't think twice about bringing a new dog into a multi-dog household; b.) believe that aggression is something which must be taught to a dog (HAH!) and c.) remain blissfully unaware of the thousands of subtle communications between dogs, consisting of posturing, positioning, glances, facial expressions, tail flagging and even hair signals. On the other hand, I've seen the results of that ignorance when things get out of hand, and so has just about every trainer and veterinarian.
"Eavesdropping" on the conversations between dogs is interesting and informative, but it's also full of gaps. It's like eavesdropping on a conversation between people who speak a language you are learning but haven't mastered. Depending upon your skill level, you may either catch a word or two here and there or complete sentences, minus those words not yet in your vocabulary. I had that experience yesterday at a doctor's office (I have been spending a lot of time at doctor's offices lately - thankfully, not my own appointments!). There were several clumps of interesting people - one was a middle-aged woman with her deaf mother who were signing furiously. For someone who has deaf dogs and several books on communication, I'm amazingly deficient in ASL, and didn't have a clue to what they were talking about. Another was an older couple and a young nurse who was interviewing them in Spanish. I'd sure like to know from where they hailed, as the young woman's speech was just lovely - I could understand almost every word she said, while the couple's speech was muddled and imprecise and virtually unintelligible - at least to me.
I don't believe that humans can ever be fluent in dog language. The best we can manage is understanding most of it, and we can communicate many things to dogs in it, but we'll never be fluent because we can't be - we just aren't equipped for it. We have no tails and our ears don't move. We lack hackles. But as pack leader, I think it's my job to eavesdrop on them as much as possible. I'm not one of those "let 'em work it out for themselves" kind of people. I shudder when some self-proclaimed dog trainer doles out that advice, especially to folks with the gladiator breeds and dominant dogs. Among certain circles, the term "dominance theory" is kicked around like a one-eyed stepchild, and that word "dominance" has become not only politically incorrect, but is the subject of heaves and sighs and cries of "Neanderthal!" and "Old-fashioned" and "abusive." Somehow, being the "dominant" individual in your human/canine pack is now a pejorative, conjuring images of cruel little dictators beating and starving their subjects into submission and executing those who will not comply. We have converted the leadership and control of the animals we own into a political statement, and I find that downright unfortunate. Dogs, like all social mammals including humans, have distinct hierarchies. When we humans bring dogs into our environment and create packs, it is entirely our responsibility to be at the top of that hierarchy. Yet we often do so much which indicates to our dogs that we are not. And the more I observe my dogs, the more I wonder how well the average dog is raised and how many pieces are missing when a dog is not raised with other dogs.
It's a funny thing - my dogs don't usually spend much time chewing things. Because of the makeup of my pack, I don't keep high-food-value chews like meaty bones, rawhide or any animal parts around because it would trigger too much competition and disharmony. I digress. But every time a new pack member enters the household, sooner or later they engage in a bone-chewing ritual. (For this ritual, both real bones and synthetics like Nylabones are employed.) Seemingly out of the blue, the established pack members all grab a bone, walk off to their favorite area and commence chewing. The newcomer ("it," like in a game of tag) then tests the resolve of each one to retain possession of their booty. I do not allow such ritual among adults, but it's an important lesson for a puppy, I believe, as long as the adults don't start mixing it up between themselves.
This morning's round: Max, Nugget and Piglet were chewers and Petey, of course, was "it." Rodney (basset) was more interested in sleeping and Sugar Baby was fixated on her ball - nothing unusual there. Petey was full of himself - posture high, tail up, even some hackles. Naturally, the adults expressed their displeasure as he approached. They'd stiffen, maybe growl, sometimes holding their bone with their teeth. As he came closer, they pulled back their mouth corners in a grimace, heads pointed 45 to 90 degrees from him, glancing out of the corners of their eyes - fightin' words in dog language. A sort of "Don't you even think of it!"
Pete's recent lessons have been well learned. He now either leaves and pesters someone else, or if he thinks his puppy license hasn't quite run out with that particular dog, he lowers himself, licks the air as he crawls to the prized bone, gingerly taking it and hoping not to get eaten in the process. Funny, but he now knows more certainly than I do which dogs will let him get away with this tactic. Once he manages to wrest the booty from a big dog, he occupies himself with it for just a moment, sometimes hackling up, being quite full of himself, before moving on to another object. This is where I think a puppy's lack of attention span comes in quite handy - the big dog can reclaim his or her bone and thus save face. While a frustration for a trainer, the short attention span may actually be a survival tool, especially in an emerging adolescent.
I wonder how a dog can possibly learn those lessons when raised as an only dog. I also question the wisdom of some advice regularly given to puppy owners, like: If your puppy is chewing on something inappropriate, distract him and give him a more acceptable thing to chew on. I have never, ever seen an adult dog "give" anything to a puppy, and I have to wonder what it tells the puppy when we humans do so, especially if this thing is given with a lot of cooing and petting - what we call "praise." The more I watch my dogs, the more I find myself growling, stiffening and looking sideways at the puppy when I want to redirect him to a more appropriate chew toy, I first hold it close, rub it all over, even spit on it, then drop it and lord over it for a moment before allowing the puppy to take it. This makes the object all the more desirable in his eyes. I do not make a big deal about taking undesirable objects away - To do that is to tell the dog "This is a PRIZE!" He may learn to ignore it when I'm right on top of him, but it will become quite attractive when I'm not looking. And really, I have better things to do with my time than to dedicate all my attention to my dogs. Like writing this blog...
Environmental Enrichment
or Avoiding Boredom During Confinement
Since I'm still being cautious about Max's interactions with Petey, I'm trying to keep Pete's crate time interesting. He rarely eats out of a bowl anymore - I've taken to feeding his kibble in a treat ball, which he'll knock around for a good while to extract his meals, one piece at a time. I also supplement his diet with some canned food and cottage cheese which I now stuff into a hollow shin bone. Plug one end with a canned-food meatball, fill the middle with cottage cheese, plug the other end with a meat ball and voila! A fun and nutritious dog puzzle. Petey doesn't seem to mind this and it keeps him well-occupied during crate time.
Pete's integration into the pack continues and I must admit that such things are stressy for me as well as for the other dogs. Sometimes I wish that I could adopt the attitude of some of the well-meaning but not-very-dog-savvy owners I know who a.) don't think twice about bringing a new dog into a multi-dog household; b.) believe that aggression is something which must be taught to a dog (HAH!) and c.) remain blissfully unaware of the thousands of subtle communications between dogs, consisting of posturing, positioning, glances, facial expressions, tail flagging and even hair signals. On the other hand, I've seen the results of that ignorance when things get out of hand, and so has just about every trainer and veterinarian.
"Eavesdropping" on the conversations between dogs is interesting and informative, but it's also full of gaps. It's like eavesdropping on a conversation between people who speak a language you are learning but haven't mastered. Depending upon your skill level, you may either catch a word or two here and there or complete sentences, minus those words not yet in your vocabulary. I had that experience yesterday at a doctor's office (I have been spending a lot of time at doctor's offices lately - thankfully, not my own appointments!). There were several clumps of interesting people - one was a middle-aged woman with her deaf mother who were signing furiously. For someone who has deaf dogs and several books on communication, I'm amazingly deficient in ASL, and didn't have a clue to what they were talking about. Another was an older couple and a young nurse who was interviewing them in Spanish. I'd sure like to know from where they hailed, as the young woman's speech was just lovely - I could understand almost every word she said, while the couple's speech was muddled and imprecise and virtually unintelligible - at least to me.
I don't believe that humans can ever be fluent in dog language. The best we can manage is understanding most of it, and we can communicate many things to dogs in it, but we'll never be fluent because we can't be - we just aren't equipped for it. We have no tails and our ears don't move. We lack hackles. But as pack leader, I think it's my job to eavesdrop on them as much as possible. I'm not one of those "let 'em work it out for themselves" kind of people. I shudder when some self-proclaimed dog trainer doles out that advice, especially to folks with the gladiator breeds and dominant dogs. Among certain circles, the term "dominance theory" is kicked around like a one-eyed stepchild, and that word "dominance" has become not only politically incorrect, but is the subject of heaves and sighs and cries of "Neanderthal!" and "Old-fashioned" and "abusive." Somehow, being the "dominant" individual in your human/canine pack is now a pejorative, conjuring images of cruel little dictators beating and starving their subjects into submission and executing those who will not comply. We have converted the leadership and control of the animals we own into a political statement, and I find that downright unfortunate. Dogs, like all social mammals including humans, have distinct hierarchies. When we humans bring dogs into our environment and create packs, it is entirely our responsibility to be at the top of that hierarchy. Yet we often do so much which indicates to our dogs that we are not. And the more I observe my dogs, the more I wonder how well the average dog is raised and how many pieces are missing when a dog is not raised with other dogs.
It's a funny thing - my dogs don't usually spend much time chewing things. Because of the makeup of my pack, I don't keep high-food-value chews like meaty bones, rawhide or any animal parts around because it would trigger too much competition and disharmony. I digress. But every time a new pack member enters the household, sooner or later they engage in a bone-chewing ritual. (For this ritual, both real bones and synthetics like Nylabones are employed.) Seemingly out of the blue, the established pack members all grab a bone, walk off to their favorite area and commence chewing. The newcomer ("it," like in a game of tag) then tests the resolve of each one to retain possession of their booty. I do not allow such ritual among adults, but it's an important lesson for a puppy, I believe, as long as the adults don't start mixing it up between themselves.
This morning's round: Max, Nugget and Piglet were chewers and Petey, of course, was "it." Rodney (basset) was more interested in sleeping and Sugar Baby was fixated on her ball - nothing unusual there. Petey was full of himself - posture high, tail up, even some hackles. Naturally, the adults expressed their displeasure as he approached. They'd stiffen, maybe growl, sometimes holding their bone with their teeth. As he came closer, they pulled back their mouth corners in a grimace, heads pointed 45 to 90 degrees from him, glancing out of the corners of their eyes - fightin' words in dog language. A sort of "Don't you even think of it!"
Pete's recent lessons have been well learned. He now either leaves and pesters someone else, or if he thinks his puppy license hasn't quite run out with that particular dog, he lowers himself, licks the air as he crawls to the prized bone, gingerly taking it and hoping not to get eaten in the process. Funny, but he now knows more certainly than I do which dogs will let him get away with this tactic. Once he manages to wrest the booty from a big dog, he occupies himself with it for just a moment, sometimes hackling up, being quite full of himself, before moving on to another object. This is where I think a puppy's lack of attention span comes in quite handy - the big dog can reclaim his or her bone and thus save face. While a frustration for a trainer, the short attention span may actually be a survival tool, especially in an emerging adolescent.
I wonder how a dog can possibly learn those lessons when raised as an only dog. I also question the wisdom of some advice regularly given to puppy owners, like: If your puppy is chewing on something inappropriate, distract him and give him a more acceptable thing to chew on. I have never, ever seen an adult dog "give" anything to a puppy, and I have to wonder what it tells the puppy when we humans do so, especially if this thing is given with a lot of cooing and petting - what we call "praise." The more I watch my dogs, the more I find myself growling, stiffening and looking sideways at the puppy when I want to redirect him to a more appropriate chew toy, I first hold it close, rub it all over, even spit on it, then drop it and lord over it for a moment before allowing the puppy to take it. This makes the object all the more desirable in his eyes. I do not make a big deal about taking undesirable objects away - To do that is to tell the dog "This is a PRIZE!" He may learn to ignore it when I'm right on top of him, but it will become quite attractive when I'm not looking. And really, I have better things to do with my time than to dedicate all my attention to my dogs. Like writing this blog...
Environmental Enrichment
or Avoiding Boredom During Confinement
Since I'm still being cautious about Max's interactions with Petey, I'm trying to keep Pete's crate time interesting. He rarely eats out of a bowl anymore - I've taken to feeding his kibble in a treat ball, which he'll knock around for a good while to extract his meals, one piece at a time. I also supplement his diet with some canned food and cottage cheese which I now stuff into a hollow shin bone. Plug one end with a canned-food meatball, fill the middle with cottage cheese, plug the other end with a meat ball and voila! A fun and nutritious dog puzzle. Petey doesn't seem to mind this and it keeps him well-occupied during crate time.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Phone Alert Training
Petey got a lesson in alerting to the phone yesterday.
I have one of those cordless thingies which has up and down arrow keys you can press to change the volume and type of ringtone. I filled a little cup with healthy treats and sat down in a cushy chair. Pete already knows "Touch" and "Paws" - the first being to touch my hand with his nose, the second to paw at me.
When Pete was busy chewing a bone nearby, I'd surreptitiously place a treat in my right hand, left hand poised on the broad arm of the chair holding the telephone. Press up arrow... RING ... a quick "Pete! TOUCH!" Being sound reactive as he is, he came over immediately but stared at the phone at first. A little more encouragement, "Pete, TOUCH!" and he switched his attention from my left hand to my right where, upon sticking his nose into my palm, he discovered a treat. Good job! Thank you.
(Yes, I often thank my dogs, especially when I consider what they've just done as a favor.)
His further attempts to extract a treat from my hand yielded mild discouragement and "that's enough." Once he engaged himself in an activity of his choosing, I'd repeat the activity. It wasn't long before he'd come charging through the room at the sound of the phone, eagerly nudging my hand without my prompting him with the TOUCH command. He responded even in several very distractive situations - playing with another dog and cuddling in Dick's lap.
This dog is going to be awesome!
I have one of those cordless thingies which has up and down arrow keys you can press to change the volume and type of ringtone. I filled a little cup with healthy treats and sat down in a cushy chair. Pete already knows "Touch" and "Paws" - the first being to touch my hand with his nose, the second to paw at me.
When Pete was busy chewing a bone nearby, I'd surreptitiously place a treat in my right hand, left hand poised on the broad arm of the chair holding the telephone. Press up arrow... RING ... a quick "Pete! TOUCH!" Being sound reactive as he is, he came over immediately but stared at the phone at first. A little more encouragement, "Pete, TOUCH!" and he switched his attention from my left hand to my right where, upon sticking his nose into my palm, he discovered a treat. Good job! Thank you.
(Yes, I often thank my dogs, especially when I consider what they've just done as a favor.)
His further attempts to extract a treat from my hand yielded mild discouragement and "that's enough." Once he engaged himself in an activity of his choosing, I'd repeat the activity. It wasn't long before he'd come charging through the room at the sound of the phone, eagerly nudging my hand without my prompting him with the TOUCH command. He responded even in several very distractive situations - playing with another dog and cuddling in Dick's lap.
This dog is going to be awesome!
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