Bones Would Rain from the Sky

by Suzanne Clothier

  Understanding the dismay that accompanies receipt of the “Start Again” card, I had understood why Kate, who had driven a long, long way for a consultation, had looked at me with disbelief and a touch of irritation. She found it hard to believe that she was sitting in my kitchen and being told that one of the keys to her dog’s behavior problems is that he pulls on leash.

  Kate had worked carefully to train her young dog, Angel, since early puppyhood, and he knew how to do many things. But his behavior was worrying her. She had brought him to me because of the intensity with which he focused on things he found interesting. Sometimes, the intensity escalated into near hysteria, with Angel leaping wildly at the end of the lead and screaming. On a few occasions, he had broken away from her to chase another dog; though he did not do any harm, the intensity of his pursuit alarmed Kate. Angel is a dog she raised and handpicked as her next performance dog. His behavior embarrasses and scares her; she is afraid that he is aggressive, out of control, unfit to perform as she hopes he might.

  Ready to learn new techniques, willing to implement even a long, involved training regimen, she was speechless when I told her that she first needed to step back and work on the very foundation of their connection. She had to master the simple act of truly being with him whenever they were together, and insisting—gently, quietly—that he also be with her. If she did not have his mind, I told her, she could only hope to control or at least restrain his body. But if she could stay connected to him and help him learn to stay connected to her, anything was possible within the limits of their joint skills and abilities.

  “Oh, come on. I can’t even count how many dogs I know that pull whenever they’re excited. Lots of them are much worse about it than Angel, but they don’t act like he does. I don’t see how you can say that contributes to his behavior problems.” Kate was frowning slightly, her jaw set in disagreement.

  Brilliant, highly responsive, Angel is like many dogs I have worked with—dogs reactive to even minute changes in the world around them, desirable qualities in a working dog. But his keen intelligence is a double-edged sword: almost instantly responsive to a handler’s gesture or command, but equally responsive to other stimuli in his environment, including the ones Kate might wish he would ignore. Such dogs are like Mazeratis, beautiful and fast, but they need to be driven with care and precision. With maturity, experience and training, such dogs learn to be selectively responsive, turning their attention to appropriate matters, but Angel was young. He was also impulsive, emotional, volatile. For him, the intense excitement of a training class, Kate’s fearful apprehension that he might attack another dog and his own considerable intelligence were proving to be a difficult combination.

  Allowing him to pull excitedly on the lead had some unwanted effects: First, Angel’s arousal level escalated. Kate simply hung on for the ride, excusing the pulling behavior as something that just happened when her dog was excited. With each step, Angel’s excitement built, so that by the time they actually reached the class or practice grounds or even a nearby park where dogs might be playing, he was already aroused to a high degree. By acting as little more than his anchor, Kate had also abandoned any position of leadership, an abdication that did not go unnoticed by the dog. They would arrive at their destination with Angel’s heart rate racing and his adrenaline level already high. From a purely physiological perspective, he was well primed to respond to the stimuli of other dogs running. He would stand watching, his excitement growing with each minute, and would soon forget that Kate was even with him. When at last he reached critical mass, he exploded in a frenzy of barking, yelping and leaping, a display that many students in the class interpreted as aggressive behavior. Unable to connect with his mind, Kate had no option left but to drag his body away, frustrated by his behavior, embarrassed and disappointed. Pulling on lead is the spark that starts the embers glowing; everything else that happens is fuel poured on that tiny fire until it is blazing out of control.

  I could see the disbelief in Kate’s face as I told her that it is here, in the quality of connection, that problems begin or are dealt with, though we will employ a variety of techniques to accomplish this. But first, helping Angel would require a shift in her understanding at a deep, almost philosophical level, and it would require a commitment to being with him and insisting, gently but relentlessly, that he be with her. In even the tiniest steps, she needed to create the quality of connection she wants. There is no way to leapfrog the “unimportant” moments and reserve your full attention for only the “important” times, no more than a builder can create a beautiful house without a solid foundation. In countless ways, some that will seem insignificant at the time, she needed to build the relationship. Kate was not convinced, but she was polite and agreed (though without conviction) to think about this and give it a try. I could see that talk was getting me nowhere, and I silently asked Angel to help me show Kate what I meant. Putting on his leash, we went outside for a walk.

  Accustomed to pulling as he pleased, Angel was surprised when I began to insist that he not pull. Since it takes two to pull (ever see a dog pulling off leash?), I didn’t give him anything to pull against. Each time the leash grew taut, I gave a gentle tug and then released all tension. At first, he paid no attention to me. This was not unreasonable—we had, after all, just met. Though politely friendly, the dog had no reason to believe that I was of any great interest or concern. To expect him to respond to any direction from me would have been as arrogant as my shaking hands with someone I just met and then giving her orders on how to behave or act. We had no relationship. How then could I find a way to connect with this dog? I needed a way to become someone worth working with, someone interesting and fun. Taking advantage of his love of movement, I called his name and raced away, never letting the leash go tight. [ allowed him to just catch up to me before I spun away from him and ran the other way. As his intensity grew, I allowed him to “catch” me and offered praise and some delicious treats before we began again. He found this a delightful game and soon responded happily and quickly to my calling his name. Soon, I was hard-pressed to outmaneuver him—he kept a close eye on where I was and what I was doing, hopeful that I might start the game again. Now we had a connection, although a fragile one, and we resumed our walk. I was still insistent that he not pull, and when I felt as if I had lost him, I danced away, calling him, asking him to reconnect with me. It worked, but not in a smooth, unbroken way. In a series of advances and retreats, it took us nearly ten minutes to go a few hundred feet.

  THANKSGIVING COMES EARLY

  I decided that I’d take him toward the barn. Our cattle, chickens, pig, cats and horses provide excellent distractions for most dogs. In the absence of competition for the dog’s attention, I can only teach so much. To teach a dog to stay connected with me even in the face of distractions requires distractions. Most of the animals who have been with me for a while seem to understand their role as teachers, and they modify their behavior in fascinating ways that I interpret as the assistance of colleagues. (Although the majority of my animals have proven themselves excellent fellow teachers, I must confess that goats may be the animals voted as most likely to tease a student as teach them. One of my goats could be extraordinarily helpful in certain training situations, but at times, she also seemed unable to resist the opportunity to tweak a dog’s mind. I once had a college professor a lot like that… . )

  As we walked, I was planning just where and how I’d introduce Angel to the various animals. The chickens offer a lot of movement but no interaction—they simply pay no attention to dogs unless directly chased, something Angel would have no opportunity to do. Since they can be counted on to move in their brisk scratch-and-peck way, I can choose the appropriate distance and let the dog begin to learn how to think even in the presence of something as intriguing as a hen or rooster. After the chickens, I would have to decide whether it was a good time to meet the cows or go face-to-face with a pig. Have to play it by ear, I told myself. (Charlotte, t
he pig, is an intense interaction, her sheer bulk and fearlessness a nice counterpoint for dogs who’ve begun to believe that they are the biggest, baddest thing on the block. One look at a pig towering more than five feet above them has put more than one dog into a new frame of mind. It’s not possible to tell a dog that no pig on earth is actually that tall, no way to explain that Charlotte’s standing on her hind legs and balancing on her stall door. But sometimes, I think even if I could pass that information along, I might choose not to and let the educational value of seeing the world’s largest pig work its magic.)

  As we rounded the corner of the drive toward the barn, I realized that in my consideration of how best to use the various farm animals on Angel’s behalf, I’d forgotten the turkeys. This, I realized with a silent groan, could be a problem. These turkeys are confident beasts. Endlessly interested in whatever is happening on the farm, it is sometimes difficult to accomplish anything without the “help” of the turkeys. Their active involvement is not always entirely welcome, and occasionally worrisome, like the day John was walking into the barn and a turkey carrying a screwdriver walked past him on the way out of the barn. (We’re still wondering how the bird got the tool, if he knew how to use it and what he was planning to do.) Exposed since their arrival as day-old chicks to our dogs, they have no fear of dogs. If anything, our turkeys find dogs fascinating, and approach a new dog with interest and an evil glint in their eyes. A rudely inquiring dog nose receives a sharp peck from their strong beaks, and on more than one occasion, a gang of six or more turkeys have surrounded a dog like street toughs surrounding an old woman—with bad intent and a possible mugging in mind.

  And now, here they came to help me as I worked with Angel. I knew the turkeys would carefully size up the dog before approaching, keeping their distance unless they felt they could intimidate or safely ignore him. It was endlessly fascinating to me how quickly and accurately these birds assessed every dog they met. I knew the turkeys would keep themselves safe, but I was not sure what Angel would do. Keeping an eye on the turkeys and the dog, I reminded myself to stay soft and breathe and wait to see what the dog would do. Although relaxed, I was ready to deal with what might happen if I had misjudged the situation—I’d have no choice but to simply restrain the dog and steer him to a turkey-free zone where we could start again.

  It was quite a scene. Angel stood frozen in his tracks, a wide-eyed statue of a dog, as six turkeys strutted toward him, looking like poster children for some vaguely evil Thanksgiving festival. At that moment, the ten minutes spent insisting that Angel be with me as we walked paid off. I called his name; he turned toward me; and though still fascinated by the turkeys, he came with me as we moved away. While I was busy telling him what a great dog he was, the turkeys moved a little closer, so that when we turned back to them, I discovered to my dismay that the gap had been closed a bit.

  Though understandably interested in the birds, Angel was not bouncing around or barking. A casual observer who did not understand canine body language might even have assessed him as standing calmly and just watching. But in the stillness of his body (rigidity might be a better word) and the intense pricking of his ears and his fixed stare, I could read just how excited the dog really was. He was internally primed to a high degree, a missile that has been switched on and armed but not yet fired. Now was when I needed to ask him to remain connected with me; waiting until he had exploded was far too late. I called his name, watching for the sign that every dog gives that he has heard you. There almost always is one—whether it’s a slight turn of the head, an ear flicking back in your direction, a lightning-fast eye movement or a slight tail wag—and it is sometimes easily missed. But it’s almost always there. When Angel showed no sign of being able to hear me, I knew that we were in the danger zone where our connection was broken, so that nothing I said or did would be of help or direction to him.

  In such situations, I feel it is critically important to be fair to the dog. I could easily have pulled Angel off his feet with one well-timed jerk of the leash—he was so deeply focused on the turkeys that nothing in his body would have prepared him for that. Just such techniques are employed every day by trainers intent on teaching the dog to pay attention to them no matter what. Some even add insult to injury by sweetly inquiring in a cheerful tone, “Oh, what happened? Were you not paying attention?” after jerking the dog off his feet. But what would that really teach Angel except that I might without warning inflict pain on him? It might teach him that paying attention to me no matter what was a good idea since evidently I was psychotic and not to be trusted, a lesson that decidedly would not deepen our relationship. It certainly would not increase the dog’s understanding that we were in this together, and that together, we would find a way to deal with whatever situations arose. Everything in the dog’s behavior told me that he was truly unaware that I had asked for his attention; his focus was completely on the turkeys. To use force to shift his attention to me would have been grossly unfair. And it would have reflected a choice on my part to take the easy route and not follow the path that led to the quality of connection I wanted between myself and dog.

  I’M SORRY—ALL CIRCUITS ARE BUSY, PLEASE TRY AGAIN

  In a laboratory experiment, a cat was wired with electrodes that helped researchers see when an audible signal was received by the brain. When a tone was played, the cat’s brain responded with a blip. Tone, blip; tone, blip. Then researchers put a mouse just outside the cat’s cage where the cat could see it but not reach it. They were curious to see how the brain processed the competing stimuli of mouse and tone. Their theory was that the brain would register the tone but that the cat would consciously disregard this stimulus in favor of the mouse. To their surprise, when the cat was completely focused on the mouse, the brain did not register the tone at all—it was as if the tone had ceased to exist within the cat’s perception of his world. Why they found this surprising is a mystery to me—I have had innumerable experiences where I was so focused on a task or so deep in a book that I failed to hear a phone ring, a teakettle whistling or even the approach of another human being. But no one asked me.

  It is difficult—if not downright impossible—to communicate with someone who is not “with” you. Communication is one of the keystones of a relationship, but the prerequisite for communication is a state of connection. When we address another human being, and we can see that they appear engaged in something—be that the football game on TV or balancing the checkbook or getting the decorations on a cake just right—we have both the courtesy and common sense to repeat our question or comment, or allow them to finish before asking for their attention. We understand that they are not “with” us. If we don’t realize that they are busy—or worse yet, assume that they are deliberately ignoring us—we can feel both hurt and angry when we receive no response. They in turn can get angry with us, and rightfully so, for our rude insistence that they abandon whatever they were working on and turn their attention to us.

  Yet we routinely ignore our dogs when they tell us that they are busy. I am not saying that you should stand there helplessly waiting until your dog decides he is finished watching squirrels or whatever. I am saying that you need to respect the reality that your direction or command or request may not even have been perceived. Our response to being ignored should not be the same as our response to not being heard. In order to communicate to the dog what you would have him understand, you have to find a way past his focus on something else and turn it back to you. And at a very fundamental level, the dog’s disengagement from you speaks to a quality of connection that may need some work. But using force to ask for a dog’s attention (unless it is a matter of life and death) is just as insane as slapping someone upside the head because he did not respond to you while his focus was elsewhere. Dogs must wonder at our sudden and unpredictable violence toward them—I do not know how else they could possibly perceive our actions.

  That the dog is too engrossed to hear you is meaningful information. A fai
r response is to take note of that situation and try modifying it a bit. In Angel’s case, having the turkeys less than ten feet away was simply too much—he could not pay attention to me and to them at the same time. Like Edison’s comment after yet another failed attempt to create a filament—“Now we know ninety-nine ways not to make a lightbulb”—I had some useful information that I could apply at the next opportunity. This was not a matter of defiance by the dog, just fascination with the largest birds he’d ever come nose-to-nose with in his life. Think about a four- or five-year-old child meeting Mickey Mouse for the first time—would you have their full attention, or might you find yourself peripheral to their wide-eyed, openmouthed wonder at coming face to face with an eight-foot-tall mouse? We sometimes forget just how amazing the world can be to creatures who live fully in the moment instead of “maturely” dismissing an experience with a superficial assessment as we often do. (It is sad that maturity sometimes leads us not into a greater depth of experience and more intense enjoyment of our world but rather to an apathetic belief that we’ve already been there and done that.) Angel’s owner Kate was not immersed in the full experience of what turkeys looked like or sounded like or smelled like or how they moved or how their feathers gleamed in the sunlight or how their wattles changed colors with shifts in their emotional states. But Angel himself was drinking it all in, every sense at work. While such intense focus may interfere with our plans or goals, we might do well to join our dogs from time to time in watching the world with some genuine wonder in our eyes and hearts.