The Different Dog

“Sometimes you win, and sometimes you learn,” agility competitors like to say, and I agree. There are no losers in dog sports; it’s all about your relationship with your dog! We are process-oriented, not fixated on results. Just go out and have fun! That’s what matters.

securedownloadWell, yes. Sometimes you win, sometimes you learn. Sometimes you qualify and sometimes you learn. And sometimes after a long, long stretch in which you were supposedly learning, but actually losing, something happens that slams into your head like a loose tree limb in a hurricane and says, “When will you ever learn?”

This happens no matter what kind of dog you have, I’m sure. But as I’m still showing my Novice A terrier, and the only dog I’ve trained since is a terrier, I can only confirm that it happens frequently with a terrier, and it happens in ways that have everything to do with what training a terrier means.

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Competition obedience and the meaning of life

“Where is the meaning? Where is the meaning?” My friend Phoebe is pacing around the room, apoplectic, demanding justification for my obsession with dogs. I understand her dismay: I used to have time for other activities. I used to be able to pack up with 48 hours notice and disappear for a couple of weeks on a canoe trip; I used to lead full-moon hikes. I traveled, I went to yoga class, I could spend a weekend in the desert staring at sand and be perfectly content.

Everyone I know in the performance dog world has their version of this: “Before dogs,” one woman told me, “I was a great skier.” Or, “before dogs, we went to Europe every year.” Before dogs I had more friends, more work, a fuller life among humans. Before dogs, I stayed out late.

It’s not that I didn’t have hobbies before; I did, big ones, involving outrigger canoes and static trapezes. But the old pursuits all tapered off within four or five years. Training dogs has been different. I’ve been working with Thomas now going on eight years, competing in the ring with him for six. Five years ago I took on Tabitha, then a gangly three-month-old pit bull, and I’m now showing her in Utility, too, where her excessive enthusiasm compensates, with the crowd if not the judge, for her lack of accuracy.

Seeing no end to any of this, my friend puts her foot down. “It’s time,” she declares soundly, “for you to be doing something else.” Continue reading

A Lesson From Sage

 

Thomas articles in rain-1About a month or so ago I had reached that point of despair that makes me want to write about dog training. Thomas and I had racked up our 5th consecutive failed attempt at a UDX leg, this time not because he backed up and threw the dumbbell at me or failed to negotiate his go-out or ran up to the small white boards that signify a broad jump and stopped like, “what's that for?” Those were last month’s problems. That was before my training partner Tawn, who is awesome, figured out 14 ways to build drive into a broad jump under all circumstances; that was before I started making him hold all his toys — flying disc, tennis ball, yellow rubber thing — and deliver them square front if he wanted them thrown. We fixed his dumbbell retrieve and his broad jump and proofed his signals and worked over his go-outs.

 And then his drop-on-recall broke.

Oh — and at a trial out in San Bernardino last month, a Bernese Mountain Dog dared to lope by near the ring during signals. How can a dog possibly drop on command under such clearly dangerous circumstances? I cannot imagine such a thing would be safe. Even though the Berner was a good 20 feet away and on a leash. Attached to a human who was wearing sensible ballet flats and a split gabardine skirt covered by a grooming apron.

Like I said, there was despair. And so I wrote — I wrote and wrote and wrote, filling up reams of notebook pages with scrawly longhand and covering envelopes with scribbles, none of which turned out to be anything I wanted to type into a nice font on a computer and put up on a blog. It was too despair-y for that; I needed to chill. I needed to go back to the woodshed, think some matters through. I needed to watch the Olympics.

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A terrier, seriously

“I would avoid any kind of terrier if you are seriously considering dog obedience competition.”

This bit of wisdom came to me from woman who trains silky terriers, and ran across it in a 1994 book by neuropsychologist Stanley Coren, The Intelligence of Dogs: Canine Consciousness and Capabilities. We repeat it now and then while we’re practicing, and run up against some crazy problem. I don’t really believe it, though, and neither does Coren, who didn’t say it himself, but overheard it at a seminar, from a trainer “whose videos show only border collies and German shepherds at work.” He uses the remark in his book as an example of how trainers have long recognized differences among breeds in learning capacity and work ethic: Poodles are easier to train than Italian greyhounds; golden retrievers learn faster than bulldogs.

Terriers, the conventional wisdom holds, are the hardest and least willing of the dog-breed groups. Stubborn is the word that comes up most often.

Good hold glove 3Certainly I know people think this — twice in as many weeks different judges have disclaimed “He’s a terrier!” about Thomas — once in the obedience ring when he appeared to be vigorously subjecting his scent articles to various scientific hypotheses, once in the agility ring when he launched off the A-frame (as if a dog has to be a terrier to do that). They say these things despite the existence of exceedingly biddable terriers — rat terriers, Parson Russells, Airedales —  that in the right hands get high-in-trials and high-combineds and win national competitions with reassuring frequency. As I said to the agility judge who uttered those words last Sunday, being a terrier is not an excuse.

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Maieutics

Tabitha2-CP_AKC-8064Dogs follow their handlers’ shoulders. This is something so simple, so obvious to every dog handler in every sport that we ought to wear it on t-shirts. We see it on the agility course (“her shoulders were facing the wrong end of the tunnel,” the ladies mutter as a dog goes off-course); it happens in obedience, too — a dog that lags in heeling — especially in the figure 8 — very often does so because the handler (me) is neurotically straining to see whether little doggie is in position and in the process self-defeatingly pushes a shoulder back. (I saw myself doing this on video once and hated myself for three months.)

But why? Why is this? When, exactly, did my dogs start following me at all, and how did they figure out they could judge where I was going by watching my shoulders? It freaks me out a little. This weekend I was pulling my cairn terrier Thomas around a 180 degree turn from one jump to another and instead pulled him through the two jumps into a threadle. The good news is that I figured he had his reasons so I went with it — we executed a flawless threadle! Good doggie! The other good news is that I saw the video, and it only took a little flick my my shoulder to pull him in.

There is no bad news. I won’t let it happen again.

I am the owner/handler/guardian/whatever of two spectacularly well-trained dogs, Thomas, a seven-year-old Cairn Terrier, and Tabitha, a four-year-old American Staffordshire terrier (you can call her a pit bull; she’s a rescue and probably is one). I compete with them in one sport or another nearly every weekend. I’m obsessed with them, with the game and sport of agility and the Supreme and Limitless Challenge of competition obedience, and with their furious ability to learn and play and surprise me and think and generally just be awesome. ThomasJumping1-processed

They are, however, not everyone’s idea of good dogs. Being well-trained, in this twisted world I live in, does not mean easy to walk on the street, resistant to the rattling speed of a skateboard, or complacent when they see someone they know and want to greet. I have come to understand after so many years of trying that I value drive more than control, motivation more than discipline. And so by some standards, my dogs are kind of bad. I don’t care. They are the dogs they are and not some other dogs. They do not blow me off on course or sniff or visit other people or any of that bad stuff, at least not in agility (obedience is another story; I’ll get to that). And they don’t bite. Anyone, ever. Dayenu.

Truth, thought Socrates via Plato, lies latent in every mind, but without training and debate, it won’t emerge. Only through inquiry and investigation do we bring forth all we know. That’s maieutics. (It comes from the Greek word for “midwife.”) And I think perhaps it explains the shoulder mystery. Dogs, all dogs, have within them the potential of all-dogness — boxers can herd, Jack Russells can take down criminals, cairn terriers can do a directed retrieve (and a whole bunch of other exercises basically designed to test the skills of hunting dogs). All of them come from the s ame set of wolves way back when, the wolves that came into the caves and became the dogs that could digest our food and the companions that could enjoy our fires; the ones that looked up at our towering bodies, watched our shoulders, and followed.

They have it all stored in them somewhere. We just bring it out.

(Banner photo by Kitty Jones; Tabitha heading to the tunnel by Karen Moureaux/Contact Point; photo of Thomas jumping my Mary Fish Arango.)