Bones Would Rain from the Sky

by Suzanne Clothier

  Knowing that Angel was deeply aware of turkeys and little more, I became a bit more insistent with little tugs on the leash, gentle taps on the head with a fingertip or a ruffling of his fur on his rump—anything to get his attention so that we could retreat, together, to a distance where Angel was both able to watch the turkeys and respond to me. The quality and intent of my touches and voice were exactly the same as if I’d been trying to get a human friend to shift attention back to me and away from something fascinating; persistence was part of it, but not pain or even irritation. All I wanted was to get through to him, just as a person might tap your arm repeatedly until the signal actually registered on you. I was looking for the same thing I’d be looking for with a human friend—a shift of the eyes toward me, even momentarily, or a head or body turn toward me even though the eyes might remain focused on the attraction. Both would indicate the beginnings of a shift away from the attraction and back to me. I knew that the split second Angel gave me his attention, I had to make it crystal clear in word and deed that I was thrilled with that response. I also had to try to be more interesting than six turkeys, no mean feat since I’m lacking tail feathers and wings and my wattles aren’t nearly as red or obvious.

  It took a few tries, but I did get Angel’s attention back on me, and we quickly retreated to a turkey-free zone to give Angel a break and to discuss with Kate what was happening. As I suspected, she was a bit confused about why I even allowed Angel to look at the turkeys, why I hadn’t “corrected” him for ignoring me and how on earth I thought this was helpful in any way.

  Before coming to see me, Kate had (unsuccessfully) tried an approach recommended by another trainer, one that insisted that Angel look only at her and ignore everything around him. In theory, this is the establishment of incompatible behaviors, an approach that at least on paper seems reasonable: A dog engaged in behavior X cannot also be engaged in behavior Y. In practice, establishing incompatible behaviors can be a very effective resolution to some behavior problems. For example, a dog who is trained to run to a special place in the kitchen when the doorbell rings and wait for a delicious treat cannot also be bouncing off the front door and threatening to eat a delivery person. A person who is exercising at the gym can’t also be home eating a pint of ice cream. But the use of incompatible or competing behaviors works best when the behavior that is substituted for the undesirable behavior makes it literally (through proximity or posture) impossible for the dog to engage in the unwanted behavior.

  For dogs like Angel, trainers sometimes try to apply this same theory like so: A dog cannot remain totally focused on his handler and do anything else at the same time. In reality, this is not exactly true, and such an approach does not work for all dogs. A dog is quite capable of learning to keep his face and eyes oriented on the handler while still listening to or even smelling what’s going on around him. Couldn’t you? Try this for a moment—look up from this book and make eye contact with someone else or a little imaginary friend. Give the complete impression that you are doing nothing but focusing on that person. But while you’re doing that, really bring your attention to whether or not you can wiggle each individual toe. Keeping your eyes on someone’s face is not synonymous with being focused on them, is it? The average human being is quite capable of appearing to be engaged in listening to someone else while miles away in their minds, thinking about the existence of the Holy Grail or the speed of an African swallow or where to find the perfect shrubbery. Dogs can figure this one out too, and they do. I’ve watched many dogs dutifully keeping their eyes fixed on the handler’s face as expected, but their ears were swiveling around, picking up all kinds of information, and their noses were busy sorting out even more—all of this stimuli making its way into the dog’s mind even though his eyes never left the handler’s face. It’s a rather insulting assumption on a trainer’s part that a dog is incapable of directing his attention as he pleases.

  From a purely philosophical point of view, I have trouble with this concept of asking a dog to act as if the world has evaporated around him. It seems insulting to me to insist to an animal—or anyone for that matter—that he should ignore what his senses tell him and just pretend everything is fine. This is particularly true when a dog’s attention is fearful, though Angel’s was not. As trainer Turid Rugaas says, “If you’ve seen a green slimy monster in the corner, you’re going to have a hard time pretending there’s no green slimy monster in the corner.” In our loving human relationships, we do not discount others’ experiences of the world but instead seek to understand them and perhaps even join them in their point of view. We may not always share their point of view or their fears or their concerns, but if we love them, we deeply respect their reality. When Mom agreed to leave the light on in the hall, it probably wasn’t because she was afraid of the dark.

  There is nothing inherently wrong with a dog watching the world and what’s going on. The world can be a very interesting place, and we’d be more than a little foolish (or rigidly controlling) to ask any intelligent animal to pretend otherwise. There is nothing wrong with a dog watching turkeys or anything else with interest. The world is an intriguing adventure for any intelligent, aware being. There’s an old joke about a man who cannot help noticing beautiful women; the punch line is “I’m married, not blind.” A dog ought to remain a dog. If truly connect ed to his people and in control of the impulses that turkeys and other amazements might inspire, a dog need not be blind to the world around him.

  And if not deeply connected, if not in control of his impulses, the blame can be laid at the feet of the people involved, not at the dog’s paws. If the dog’s behavior steps past alert curiosity and interest in his world and becomes annoying, frightening, threatening, fearful or even dangerous, there is a problem that needs to be dealt with at a very fundamental level of the relationship. But the answer is not to deny the dog his dogness or to make him completely dependent upon his handler. A handler who insists that the dog ignore the world is one who is afraid of losing control of the dog, just as the woman who elbows her husband in the ribs for noticing a beautiful woman is afraid and uncertain about the relationship and herself. And always in the face of such fearful need to control, I am reminded of Erik Erikson’s provocative question, “Why do we think the face has turned away that only looked elsewhere?”

  Unable to detect the difference between interest and serious intent, some handlers set up a rigid system of prevention that does not stretch their understanding but simply limits the dog. A dog who is systematically trained to ignore his world is a fur-clad robot, not a living being. Additionally, this approach gives the animal no coping skills, no new or improved way of dealing with the situation. It does make the dog totally reliant on his handler in what I think is an unhealthy way that smacks of the handler’s desire to control the animal’s behavior instead of educating them so that they can deal with the world. A more loving, relationship-based approach would be to educate the animal, help him find healthy, productive responses to the world around him, to eliminate or at least minimize his fears—not to offer him temporary fixes or an ostrich-sticking-his-head-in-the-sand approach.

  YES, BUT…

  Taking advantage of physiological facts, it seemed to me a much fairer and, in the long run, more productive approach to help Angel find another way to deal with things he found of considerable interest. Knowing that the longer he stared at the birds, the more likely he was to escalate on the arousal scale until he perhaps lost control of himself, we began to encourage and reinforce any shift in Angel’s attention away from the birds. Initially, we prompted this behavior simply by having Kate walk away. In order to rival the fascination of turkeys, she had to dance, stomp and holler as she departed, but Angel did glance over his shoulder to see where she was going—a good sign. It took a fair amount to get him to voluntarily shift his attention away from the birds, but we made sure it was worth his while with lots of praise and treats. Each time he glanced back, the fixation cycle was broken for the
moment. At every step, Angel was learning that he could watch the turkeys and keep an ear out for Kate as well.

  We didn’t want a robot who somehow felt it was bad to watch turkeys. What we were working toward was a dog who would be able to watch the world with curiosity and interest, but also remain connected to his owner, able and ready to respond to her should she ask for his full attention. We worked on this for quite a while, and though I was pleased with Angel’s progress, Kate remained unconvinced and unimpressed. Though willing to concede that he was behaving remarkably well, she felt this was due in no small part to the fact that turkeys were not normally a part of Angel’s world. What excited Angel beyond control in his everyday world were other dogs racing around and acting wild. In that situation, she noted, he would not be behaving as well, and I’d really get to see what she meant and just how crazy Angel could become. I could not get through to her the idea that whatever the trigger, a high level of arousal was a high level of arousal, and the approach and philosophy would be the same. And so, in an attempt to create a scenario that Kate felt would bring out the worst in Angel, I had John let all of our dogs out into their fenced yard.

  As expected and desired, there was a chorus of warning barks from my dogs when they spotted me with Angel on the lawn, and Angel responded with a surge of excitement. But our work with the turkeys had paid off; he was able and willing to remain connected to me, sitting quietly when I asked and watching the dogs with interest but nothing more. I was delighted with his progress, so when I turned to look at Kate, her frown surprised me. I asked if she didn’t think this represented progress, and in her response, I could hear her still struggling to accept the concept of the quality of connection as the all-important foundation. Interestingly, she was more intent on finding excuses for why he was not behaving badly rather than embracing the positive changes before her: “Yes, but they’re not all revved up. Even though they’re barking, they’re not racing around really excited and playing. That’s what really sets him off.”

  Looking at Angel, who looked right back at me, I realized for the millionth time that what I love most about working with dogs is their willingness to accept new ways and discard old ones. If you show a dog a more comfortable and productive way to experience life, he is usually quite glad to trade in his confusion, anxiety, anger or fear for more pleasant feelings. Humans, on the other hand, can be a bit resistant to change. With an internal sigh, I told Kate that I’d have John race around and play ball with my dogs, working them up to as near hysteria as could be managed. My dogs were happy to oblige, and their usual excited, noisy play just a few feet on the other side of the fence was certainly of interest to Angel. But he did not explode or lose his mind or do anything except occasionally forget himself and get up from the sit I had requested. At a quiet reminder, he promptly sat back down, watching the dogs play, still unmistakably connected to me. I had but to whisper his name for him to instantly turn his attention away from the dogs and to me. At last, Kate had to admit that perhaps what I had been telling her had some merit. She apologized for being so resistant and allowed that on the long drive home, she would have plenty to think about.

  There is a beautiful red ribbon that hangs near my desk. Sometimes, a light breeze makes the long streamers dance, and the gold lettering on the rosette gleams softly and tells me that this ribbon was presented for second place in a competition. This is a very special gift from Angel, this first ribbon he ever earned. In the note of thanks that accompanied the ribbon, Kate told me that in his first official competition just a few months after meeting the turkeys, Angel had performed with style and precision, joining her in a mutual dance. Kate had not fully believed that this might ever be possible, and certainly not so soon. Angel had lost first place by only a point when instead of jumping up onto and immediately lying down on the table obstacle as required, Angel just had to peek under the table to see what was there. Kate felt that Angel knew I would understand why he did this, and I did: The world’s an interesting place.

  Beyond the ribbon that I treasure, Angel gave me a far greater gift, one that exists only in my memory, a snapshot of a moment when we were working with the turkeys. I stand behind him, softly calling his name and giving a little flutter on the leash to say, “Come with me, this way.” His beautiful neck is arched as he cranes his head to keep the turkeys in sight for as long as possible. Even though I laugh at his wide-eyed curiosity, I am insistent with my gentle nudges and reminders that this dog be with me. I know he is torn, reluctant to leave these darkly feathered hoodlums who peer sternly past their dangling snoods at him.

  “Angel,” I call again, and one ear swivels back to let me know that he hears my request. Without taking his eyes off the turkeys, the dog begins to back up in my direction. “Good dog,” I say with deeply felt sincerity; this is such tremendous cooperation in a difficult situation. He backs a few more steps, then surprises me by lifting himself up and walking backward on his hind legs so that he can keep the turkeys in clear view. This is his counteroffer to my request—he agrees to come with me but in return he asks for only this, to be allowed to keep his eyes on the birds. I don’t need him to turn away from the turkeys; I only need his cooperation, and I have it, though it is styled uniquely in this brilliant compromise that both pleases and amuses me. In this unusual fashion we retreat, Angel walking backward on his hind legs with amazing coordination. At last, we reach a point where the turkeys can no longer be seen, and Angel drops to all fours and turns toward me, the expression on his face one of wonder and pleasure. He prances at my side, smiling up at me, and it is clear that he finds this new adventure a good deal of fun. As we walk together down the driveway, away from the birds, Angel glances longingly over his shoulder and then up at me, his tail wagging. I feel as if I am walking a reluctant but ultimately agreeable child out of Disneyland.

  To fix the weak spots in a relationship, you need to begin at the beginning. The quality of connection is created and repaired at the most fundamental level of attentive awareness. In each moment that you are with the dog, you must be aware, gently and persistently shifting the balance toward one of mutual agreement and cooperation. This is not easy, and it requires some thought. Most of all, it requires a desire to create—over and over again—the event of quality, which in turn creates a heartfelt commitment to truly being with the dog.

  Learning to really be with their dogs, to truly listen (with far more than their ears) to what their dogs were telling them about that moment’s experience, some people I’ve worked with have found themselves also examining the quality of their connection with others around them. Newly and profoundly aware of the difference that results from a conscious choice to create an event of quality, they begin to apply an equally attentive and loving approach in their dealings with friends and family.

  This commitment to truly being with their dog sometimes proves more difficult than some expect, requiring as it does ongoing and greater awareness in every moment. Many have reported to me how exhausting they initially found the work of being truly, deeply attentive to and aware of their dogs. At a very basic level, we are out of practice. Our modern world does not encourage deep, thoughtful listening skills but rather offers us quick “sound bites”—perhaps acceptable when zipping through a quick review of news stories, but hardly supportive of a meaningful relationship. The gift of attentiveness and total focus on what we are saying is so rare, in fact, that when we are truly heard, we often exclaim with pleasure and amazement, “He really listens!”

  It is strangely true that while each of us wishes to be heard at length, we often listen to others in only short bursts of attention. Sad that something as fundamental to a loving relationship should so often be incomplete or even missing. If we would understand our dogs, then we begin by shifting our awareness toward understanding that in every interaction, we are in conversation with our dogs. Every conversation begins with a simple connection, a shift of attention away from the world and to another being. It is only when we ch
oose to create an event of quality by bringing our full attention to bear that we open ourselves to truly hear another.

  7

  CALLING DR. DOOLITTLE

  “Lots of people talk to animals,” said Pooh.

  “Maybe, but… ”

  “Not very many listen, though,” he said.

  ‘That’s the problem,” he added.

  BENJAMIN HOFF, THE TAO OF POOH

  YOU’VE SIMPLY GO TO LOVE A MAN WITH A DUCK FOR A HOUSEKEEPER. I keep telling folks that the real reason Dr. Doolittle has been my lifelong hero is that he trusted his household to the reliable Jemima Puddleduck. As someone who has dealt with her share of ducks (there was that mallard who lived in the living room for a few months and happily swam in the bathtub, bobbing for Cheerios), I can attest to the fact that our web-footed friends are not exactly the kings of clean. Never a fan of vacuuming or other forms of keeping house, I’ve defended myself over the years by pointing out that I simply haven’t yet found the right duck to help me keep an orderly house.

  To be truthful, far beyond his choice in housekeepers (she did carry her own feather duster with her at all times), what I admired most was the good doctor’s ability to talk to the animals. To be able to speak fluent Horse or Dog was, to my mind, the finest of all possibilities. The notion that it was possible to talk to the animals was not a new concept to me when I first encountered Dr. Doolittle at a tender age. Like most children, my earliest books contained countless animal characters, most gifted with memorable personalities and intelligence and the ability to speak. The animal heroes of books I read as an older child somehow—without my noticing—lost the power of speech. The Black Stallion, Black Beauty, the troubled Flicka, Lad of Sunnybank, White Fang, Old Yeller and others all continued to communicate, but wordlessly. In their gestures, in their resistance and their agreeable compliance, in their misdeeds and heroic actions, these animals spoke volumes. If there was a common thread running through these books and many others, it was that powerful communications were possible without a single word being said. In Jack London’s Call of the Wild, silent testimony to a dog’s utmost willingness is given in Buck’s struggle to move the sled that his master has piled high with a staggering load and the foolish freight of human pride. And what more could mere words convey about love and loyalty than a Collie who has traveled the breadth of Scotland to return to the boy she loved? Even if author Eric Knight had given her a voice, Lassie could have said nothing more eloquent than what was told in her eyes as she lay exhausted, nearly dead, outside her young master’s schoolyard gate.