Here’s a memory that is not a beautiful one: I am fourteen and—desperate for a dog of my own—I spend so much time with the neighbor’s Collie that everyone considers me his surrogate owner. I have taught him many tricks, some so subtly signaled that gullible onlookers believe the dog has magical powers. Frustrated that I don’t own a dog, I have trained Brandy to jump the weird assortments of chairs, broomsticks and lawn furniture that I drag from the garage and arrange in some semblance of an Olympic show-jumping course. He is an athletic dog, and willing to please me in anything I ask of him. One afternoon, after he has sailed clear over my head on command, I cockily inform kids from the neighborhood that this dog could probably jump anything—even my mother’s Buick station wagon. When they scoff at my boast, I point to the car and tell Brandy to jump. He flies joyfully through the air, his sable-and-white fur flowing, and then he lands hard on the car’s hood. As he scrambles for some purchase on the slick metal, he spins slightly toward me, and I see his eyes, surprised and afraid, silently questioning me. I am sick with the knowledge that I have betrayed a trust.
Becoming truly humane in my relationships with animals has been a slow and painful evolution that required me to look carefully at the darker corners of my soul. Unlike the external evolutionary pressures on a bird to grow extraordinary feathers in order to attract a mate, the selective pressure on the soul comes only from within. You can hear this force at work if you listen closely. It may be what the psalmist meant when he wrote of “the small still voice inside you.” But it can also be quite easily ignored.
I was twenty-one years old with a whopping three years of experience as an animal professional already under my belt when I acquired Bear, my first German Shepherd. Though my enthusiasm for training animals far outran my skill, Bear managed to figure out what I meant. In our daily life, he was a wonderful companion. Whether walking through dense, hectic crowds at a concert in Central Park or exploring nearby woods with me, I had but only to say a word or give a hand signal to get a quick, happy response from Bear. He was as comfortable lying quietly in a department store dressing room as waiting outside the local post office. He was a very good dog.
The problems began when I decided that we should enter obedience competitions. It seemed a simple matter to meet the requirements; after all, he’d handled much more challenging situations in real life. Ever the perfectionist, I became unpleasantly focused on the importance of precision in performance, worried about the points that might be deducted if his response was a hair slow or his sit a wee bit crooked. I began to nag at him, bemoaning his stubborn refusal to practice the same thing over and over again. At times, during practice of heeling off leash, Bear would veer away from me to lie on the porch ignoring my pleas, impervious to my demands. I grew frustrated with his lack of desire for retrieving the official wooden dumbbell. How could this be the same dog who would fetch sticks or balls until my arm grew weary? This was the dog who would voluntarily retrieve turtles, but my commands to fetch a simple wooden dumbbell were met with reluctance or even downright refusal.
Had anyone asked, I would have confidently insisted that Bear and I had a wonderful relationship. But there was a difference between our relationship during training and what we had when he lay at my feet watching the sunset or happily galloped along next to my pony. At a level I could not yet define, training served to push us away from each other. Somehow, it weakened our relationship; we were out of synch, frustrated and even downright unhappy at times. There were times when I decidedly did not like Bear—specifically when he refused to do what I wanted—though I never stopped loving him. I know there were also many times when Bear did not like me very much, and for good reason: Our communication became a one-way street that went my way or no way. This bothered me a great deal—but not enough to let go of my goals and pay attention to what my dog was telling me.
Sure that technical knowledge was the key to what I felt was missing, I devoured books on training and behavior, attended seminars, read more, watched other trainers at work. Along the way, I acquired new training skills and a deeper understanding of dogs. This knowledge was useful; in learning a more structured, analytical approach to unraveling the mysteries of behavior and training, I became a better trainer. As the Royal Air Force motto says, “Every handler gets the dog he deserves.” And through diligent effort, an endless desire to know more and a passion for becoming an ever-better trainer, I began to deserve and thus received more of Bear’s willing cooperation. Proud of my mastery of both jargon and technique, I did not realize that much of what I had learned had clouded the clarity of my connection with animals. Though increasingly technically proficient, I had lost (or more accurately, misplaced) something I could not quite define, something that had existed before the adult me knew more, knew better. Unable to articulate just what was lost, I was still uneasy enough to need to account for this uncomfortable feeling. In the end, the only explanation I could offer myself was that it was not so much a matter of something missing as changed. My previous experiences had been due to a childish view of dogs and training, and now, I assured myself, I had a more mature, adult perspective of the matter, which included sometimes unpleasant but necessary realities. Earnestly trying to follow the example of the trainers I admired, I turned my focus to an intellectual mastery of my chosen profession—and away from my heart.
In time, people began to seek me out for help with their dogs, and a dog training school was born. In retrospect, I shudder when I look back, well aware that though I had proclaimed myself a trainer (and had made serious efforts to educate myself in a number of ways), I was really little more than living proof that a person with a little knowledge can be of some help to those with even less. Often quite uneasy with many of the popular training techniques I read about and saw used by other trainers, yet not totally satisfied with the results I helped people achieve, I kept searching for more—more kindness, more harmony, more joy between dog and human. Always nagging at the back of my mind was an awareness of the gap between training and how I lived day to day with all my animals. I wanted a way to bridge that gap so that there was no sharp distinction between real life and a training session. I needed to find a way to the point where moving between daily life and formal training was only a shift in my focus, not in the relationship between me and the animal.
A new approach began to form in my heart. Or, more accurately, a philosophy shaped by my heart began to define my thinking. There was no single moment of epiphany, just a growing awareness that I need look no further than a dog’s eyes to find the precise moment when my connection to that dog shifted away from clear and free agreement between us. Did my approach to the dog create resistance, fear, distrust or pain, dimming the clear trusting light in his eyes? Then I had to find a better way. At first unconsciously and then with deliberation, I began to evaluate all methods, philosophies and techniques against just this simple standard: the light in a dog’s eyes. Over and over I asked myself, “Does this allow the light to shine?” And in every dog’s eyes, I found my answer. Held to this standard, many of the popular theories and principles proved poor guides to the greater intimacy and deeper, more joyful connections I knew were possible with animals. Slowly, I abandoned much of the parochial wisdom and began to open my heart and mind to learning what I wanted and needed to know from those who could best teach me—the animals themselves.
In many instances, my desire for another way was unmatched by my ability to find the better way, leaving me frustrated and uncertain where to turn. Unhappily, I found myself using the only techniques I knew, though as softly and effectively as possible. I did not like having to apologize to dogs, telling them, “In the long run, this is for your own good.” I watched the light in their eyes dim, and I moved as quickly as I knew how to restore the joyful clarity to those unfailing reflections of what I had done. In my soul, I was quite miserable at times. When I was not too arrogant or self-importantly busy to listen to that small still voice inside, I heard the protest d
eep inside me. I saw all too clearly the pain and confusion in far too many animal eyes. Always, I kept searching for an understanding of how and why what I did dimmed the light. And always, I kept looking for what my heart told me must exist: a way to keep the light shining.
A GIFT HORSE
Ironically, the direction I sought came from the horse world. This was the world where in my teenage years, I had learned to apply force quickly and effectively in order to control and “master” animals. (And I had learned my lessons well, which at the time earned me great praise from my mentors. But it was hard work indeed to unlearn these same lessons.) On a snowy March morning in a frigid indoor riding arena somewhere in Maryland, I found what I had been seeking.
I cannot recall just how I found my way to that weekend seminar taught by Linda Tellington-Jones, an internationally respected horsewoman. I was surprised that there were no dull lectures or demonstrations with fully trained horses. Instead, after a brief introduction, this trainer began to teach by example, working directly with the horses who had been brought to the seminar for one problem or another. The first horse was a Thoroughbred mare, who despite sterling bloodlines and considerable monetary value as a broodmare, was so dangerous that both the veterinarian and the farrier refused to deal with her; just one farm employee could handle her at all. The horse’s participation in the seminar was made possible only by the fact that she lived at the farm hosting the weekend. For perhaps half an hour, I watched as this gifted horsewoman worked with this horse, slowly helping her to shift from a desperately flailing blur of hooves to a horse who was trying hard to cooperate despite her fear and anger.
Riding invisibly on the back of this troubled, beautiful mare, the gift of understanding made its way past the defenses of my intellect and directly to my heart. As I watched, first in arrogant internal argument and then with humble gratitude for what I could not deny, much of what I had diligently learned and faithfully applied was shattered. Learning theories and principles became dry, one-dimensional, inadequate explanations for the rich, multisensory experience of connecting with an animal in a humane and truly holistic way. Tellington-Jones’ philosophy, which had sounded good to me on paper, was given authentic form in her every gesture and in her responses to the horse. There was no lip service to “humane training”—this was an integration of heart and mind on a profound level. Watching her work with that seemingly impossible mare, I was moved quite literally to tears; had someone asked me to speak in those moments, I would have been unable to respond.
The communication and relationship that I saw between this woman and a horse reorganized portions of my brain in such a way that the pieces never again fit together as they had in the past. This elated me only slightly more than it scared me. It was not easy to accept that my view of the world needed to be redefined, that the map I had created to guide me in my world was now useless for taking me where I wanted to go. In my mind’s eye, my old map was crumpled and tossed aside. Armed with fresh crayons, I was going to have to start mapping my world and my understanding of it all over again. Though frightening, I knew that it was also necessary. I had to know more.
In the next several years of my study with her, the woman who would become my greatest human teacher shifted me to a whole new level of connection with animals. I thought that I had great respect for animals; she showed me what respect really meant in her attentiveness and responses to the animal. Already known as a kind trainer, I learned that the greatest act of kindness was to see with compassion what the animals told me about their feelings, their fears, their limitations and their abilities. I thought I understood how to communicate with animals; she showed me that I also needed to listen. Respected as someone who had “soft hands,” I learned to be softer yet, to ask and not demand, and to patiently wait for the response.
When I was ready to hear it, Tellington-Jones stunned me with suc cinct advice that shot like an arrow to my heart, piercing the arrogance and pride that lay at the root of my failings as a trainer: “Learn to train without ego.” And I did, with the help of countless dogs who have kept me honest, some with a few well-timed growls. Slowly, I discovered how to carry the dance of relationship into training sessions.
This was not an easy transition for me. On paper, it seems like a joyful and painless process: Trainer finds new way, takes it, animals and people are happy. In reality, finding my way along this new path meant years of work, sorting out excess baggage from the important stuff to be carried along, experimenting with anyone who would stand still long enough for me to test my next theory or idea. The impulsively crumpled previous map of my world had to be retrieved; much of what I had learned was still useful and valid. I struggled along, trying to blend the old and the new, trusting that eventually I would find the balance of technique and philosophy that sat comfortably on my heart. There were extraordinary moments of success when I was able to move in harmony with the animal in a joyful, mutual dance. There were also moments of failure that made me consider closing down my training school or simply giving up and reverting to the old ways. The intense joy of even incomplete successes drove me past my repeated failures, my lifelong reputation for stubborn pursuit of a goal now working in my favor.
Years passed—years of experimenting and thinking and getting that blessed connection just right, years of discarding any technique or philosophy that moved me away from an authentic connection of relationship with the animals. Slowly, without my full appreciation or awareness, brief connections became longer moments and then short but joyful dances. Though it required considerable focus and deliberation, finding the connection became easier. Always, I looked for the light in an animal’s eyes, trying to move past the fear or distrust or confusion to find the clear light of understanding and being understood, the light of joy and confidence and trust. And then one day, it happened. Without thought or effort, I could find the cool white space within myself where no ego existed, where I had a goal but also no goals at all, where there was only the dog who accepted my invitation to dance, and the world fell away. From that point on, there was no question but that all I did would be directed toward this place where the dance is possible. There was no question but that the only paths I could follow were ones that led me here.
DANCES WITH DOGS
When I first met Hobbs, he was leaping like a hooked trout at the end of his lead as his owner led him toward my training room. From our phone conversation, I knew that this little black-and-white dog had bitten five people, and that other trainers had recommended he be put to sleep. I also knew that his owner considered me this dog’s last hope. The woman was high strung, anxious, fluttering in her agitation, but I could see that she loved this dog. We talked a little while I watched him. Vibrantly alive, Hobbs quivered with energy that had no outlet, living on his toes, in his skin, barely able to control his own mind. Every sound or slight movement drew his instant attention.
When his eyes briefly contacted mine, I saw intelligence and distrust in nearly equal proportions. With my mind, I reached out to him and asked, “Do you want to be this way?” For a moment, there was no response. Then slowly he turned his head and looked into my eyes for a long time. His answer was clear in my head: “No one listens to me.” I promised him that I would, and taking the leash from his owner, I began to search for how best to begin.
I asked Hobbs to simply walk with me, but he leaped away, pulling hard toward the training room door. I moved with him and stood quietly as he pawed at the door in irritation. In his quick glances at me, I could see that he wished both that the door would open and that I would go away. But the door remained closed, and I stood waiting, gently persistent, softly toning to him. Gradually, he settled down, his breathing normalized, his eyes beginning to lose the hard, quick look of a trapped animal. Again, I invited him to walk with me, and this time he agreed, though he was cautious and still wanted to leave.
As we reached the center of the room, he suddenly stopped. When I gave a little tug on the lead, I saw him
begin to tense, his whole body stiff with an unspoken challenge, his eyes shifting in a split second to the hard eyes of a dog who is growing angry. He leaned back to set himself against the lead, and I quickly offered a little slack to release the tension. Surprised by this, he relaxed a little but stood watchfully waiting for my next move. I knew he was anticipating that I would insist on going forward, and I could feel him mentally preparing to resist. From the history the owner had provided, I knew that Hobbs would bite me if I pushed him. Though she had claimed that he bit without “any warning,” I could see now that this was not true. Hobbs was quite fair. He did give warnings. The problem was that people ignored these warnings, which undoubtedly both frustrated and confused him. Biting, he had learned, was a clear communication that even very unobservant people take note of and respect. He did not know that he was writing his own death sentence.
Quietly, I turned back the way we had come, inviting him to join me, which he did without hesitation. We continued to work on simply walking together, asking him to be with me but going only where he was willing to go. Silent until now, his owner spoke up: “Why did you give in to him? How can it be a good thing to let him get away with that? Why don’t you just make him do what you want?”
Bones Would Rain from the Sky Page 5
