Free Days with George

by Colin Campbell

  The next command was “Down.” The dogs would first sit, and then be led with a tap on the ground, a small tug on the leash and a gentle push on the shoulder. A treat and praise were given when the dog successfully lay down on the floor. As the class started to practice, I heard enthusiastic and high-pitched calls of “Good girl!” or “Yes! You’re so smart. Good boy!” The owners with the smaller dogs hardly had to do the shoulder press at all; they simply said, “Down,” and their compliant little hounds prostrated themselves at their owners’ feet.

  For me it was like commanding a bag of wet cement. George was having none of it. And forget that new command “Down”; we were still having a whole lot of trouble getting the “Sit” part. Worse still, George wouldn’t even look at me while I spoke to him.

  Once again the female instructor came over. “Having a few problems?”

  I absolutely hate being bad at things and, trust me, I am bad at a lot of things—yoga, singing, dancing, to name a few—so I’ve had a bit of experience with embarrassing public failures. But this was an all-new low. Clearly I was an awful dog handler, something made all the more obvious by having a dog weighing more than most of the other pupils combined, a dog bent on totally ignoring me.

  The only thing I could think of doing to defend myself was to use some lame excuse: “He’s probably having a hard time because he’s so big, and, um, not really maneuverable, unlike some of the smaller dogs here.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I felt even more stupid.

  As I sheepishly eyed the floor, the instructor took the leash from my hand and gave a small tug to get George upright. George sprang to attention and stared into her eyes. “Sit,” she said. Just once.

  George dropped his rear to the floor, his head up and chest puffed out like he was just named “Best in Show.”

  The instructor smiled and, without missing a beat, swept her hand toward the floor and in a firm but gentle voice said, “Down.”

  Without hesitation George lowered his big body to the floor while maintaining eye contact with her. His execution of the command was perfect.

  “Good boy, George. Good boy!” she said, as she dropped to one knee to rub his ears. George looked at her with eager eyes that asked, “What’s next?”

  “That was amazing,” I said. “And embarrassing. Why won’t he do that when I tell him?”

  “Well …” she began, attempting to gather her thoughts. “First of all, he’s a very smart dog, and I think he understands what we’re trying to teach him.”

  “So, he’s not ‘slow’ …”

  “No, not at all—he’s very bright,” she said.

  “So why won’t he listen when I ask him to do things?”

  “There’s a lot going on behind those eyes, Colin,” she said. “You can’t take the refusal personally. Unfortunately defiance of the owner is common with dogs who’ve experienced neglect or abuse. It probably has nothing to do with you. And it’s clear he prefers ladies to men.”

  Great, I thought. I have a gender-biased dog. A giant-sized, gender-biased dog, and I am the gender he’s biased against. This isn’t good.

  “Is there anything I can do to fix this?”

  “You’re doing it. By bringing him here. That’s the first step. He will figure out the rest eventually.” At this point George rolled over on his back, exposing his belly.

  “And one more thing,” she said. “It’s going to take time for him to trust you. Just try to be patient. Really patient.”

  “But—” I was about to ask her a whole bunch of questions about what to do and what not to do, if I was doing things right at home and if I was walking him right, what it meant when he did this or that, but George chose that moment to bound back up on all fours and barge into the practice of a cute little dog and its owner a few pairs away from us.

  “I’ll look after that for you,” the instructor said, gently calling George’s name and handing me his leash when he came back to her right away and heeled at her side.

  “He’s going to need a lot of work, but I believe you’ve got a pretty special dog inside there,” she said, before moving down the line.

  I was not convinced. “Thanks,” I said.

  The rest of the class was a train wreck. George solidified his role as class clown, with me acting as his humiliated straight man. Any time I lifted my hand from his collar he’d find a dog that interested him and walk over, excited to say hello. At one point, perhaps sensing a potential learning opportunity, the male instructor stepped in to try to reason with him. George darted to the other side of the room. When the female instructor took over, George rolled onto his back and begged her for a belly rub. The sight of George’s giant white stomach made her burst out laughing and whatever order she’d issued fell to the wayside as she petted him for what seemed like the hundredth time. My human counterparts in the room looked on with varying levels of amusement.

  When class was finally over, I was defeated and exhausted. I suspected the instructors were, too, and as the female instructor said goodbye to George, I used the moment to issue an apology.

  “I’m really sorry,” I said. “It seems we’re—I’m—not exactly good at this. Maybe it’s best if we don’t come next week. I don’t want to distract the other dogs and owners.”

  “Nonsense,” the instructor replied. “It was George’s first class. He’ll do better next week—won’t you, George?” At this George did a perfect, solid sit. “See? He’s a smart dog. He just needs some time to figure it out. You both do.”

  I hoped she was right. If I’d been the one with the tail, it would have been between my legs.

  George and I spent the next week diligently practicing “Sit” and “Down.” We did it every day, at least ten times during the morning and evening walks. Sometimes he got it; other times he looked at me as if to say, “Why don’t you sit?” Success was entirely random for seven days in a row, but random was better than nothing, and I was slightly encouraged.

  We arrived for the next class early, and as we waited for the others to get there, I said, “Okay, George. You’re going to be a good boy in class today, and I have to learn to trust you. Go have fun.” Quietly fearing the same problems as last week, I let George off the leash to roam and socialize with the other dogs. George found his bichon friend and greeted her nose to nose, his three-foot-long tail wagging at a fraction of the speed of the bichon’s mini wonder tail. A moment later, George flopped down and shoulder-rolled onto his back, at which point three or four other little dogs ran over and started sniffing him and licking him and tail-wagging all around him. The whole time, George’s tail counted time in big thumps against the floor. A chorus of “Aw-w-w-w-ws” broke out, and suddenly the other dog owners were whisking out their cell phones to take pictures of the spectacle. Maybe he wasn’t such a disruption after all.

  George and I continued going to class for the next few weeks, and while I admit that I was starting to relax with time, I won’t say that my palms were completely dry at the beginning of each class. I won’t even say they were completely dry at the end of class. George was more of a sideshow than a pupil, and while he did learn a few things, it was unclear if that thing could really be called “obedience.”

  George still did a “hit and miss” sit, meaning he would do it one time out of every three or four attempts. The other dog owners in class watched our tense standoffs, many of them muffling their chuckles or impatience. The female instructor would come to my rescue and help me, just to prove to me that George had it in him.

  But George’s biggest achievement occurred a few weeks later during our attempt to learn “off-leash recall.” We were all standing along the wall, with the male instructor issuing his directives, when George sauntered out to the middle of the floor and had a big, slow poop in front of the entire class. Not his best performance.

  At the end of that class the female instructor approached us. I thought for sure that this time she would ask us not to return, but she said, “I did some reading t
his week and discussed George’s issues with some colleagues.”

  “You did?” I replied as I tried to keep—unsuccessfully—George in a heel.

  “We think you need to stop relying on verbal commands and signals and start being more physical with him.”

  “Physical?” Did she want me to hit him? I was surprised and upset at her suggestion. “I won’t do that,” I said.

  “No, no … I mean physical in a gentle way. I mean affection. You need to be affectionate with him.”

  She paused to let that sink in.

  “Newfoundlands are a very sensitive breed. They read a great deal into tone of voice, even posture and body language. You have to work on that.”

  I got even more defensive. “But I’m so gentle with him and have been careful not to move suddenly around him. I rub his head and ears when he lets me.”

  “That’s a good beginning,” she said, “but you could afford to be even more affectionate with him.” She paused again for a moment. “Do you hug him?”

  “Well, no … not yet. He won’t even eat in front of me, let alone let me hug him.”

  The instructor nodded slowly and looked down at George, who was standing still, staring at both of us. “He needs to feel love from you. He needs his faith in men restored.” I stood there thinking about what she had just said to me, in a room full of people and dogs. “You need to make yourself more emotionally available. You need to learn to show love.” Suddenly I felt very alone. It was almost the same advice Dr. Hamer had recently given me.

  I felt my face getting flushed as I gazed at George’s big, sweet face and sad eyes. I’d wanted to hug him since the minute I saw him and yet I’d always held back. Maybe I shouldn’t have. But, to be totally honest, I’d struggled with giving physical affection all my life. I didn’t exactly grow up in a family of huggers. In the past few months without Jane, this had only gotten worse. I wanted to help George. I really did. And I guess deep down, maybe I wanted him to help me, too.

  I dropped to my knees in front of him and nudged his forehead with mine, taking his head in my hands. I could feel his warm breath against my cheek as I wrapped my arms around his neck and shoulders. Instead of recoiling, which is what I was certain he would do, he leaned into me and gently licked my face.

  “There. You see?” said the instructor. “Was that so hard?”

  I had to close my eyes to stop the tears from spilling out.

  After a few more classes George started to show just how much he had going on behind those droopy eyes. I was now regularly getting down to his level to hug him and whisper in his ear. He would respond with soft licks, sometimes putting his big head on my shoulder. I noticed that his confidence was improving alongside his desire to do things with me. Maybe this affection stuff was actually working.

  Instead of being a regular disruption in class, George was slowly starting to pay attention and was learning the exercises. That didn’t prevent an occasional “George moment” in which he would accidentally bump into one of the other handlers and send the person off balance when we were practicing an off-leash task. He knocked a few people down, but they were more startled than hurt. George always hung his head when he saw what he’d done, as though completely confused at how his “tiny” body could have caused such a result.

  Beyond that, George was also figuring out his boundaries and even listening to instructional cues. Every time a trick was introduced or reviewed, the instructors would call a dog to the front of the class to demonstrate. They tried to mix things up so it wasn’t the same dog every time, but the mix leaned heavily toward three or four smaller super-dogs—including George’s girlfriend, the bichon frise.

  She was a pro. Not only could she do all the basic commands, she could also balance on her hind legs when asked. Every so often, when owner and dog got bored with the normal drills, they’d practice elaborate tricks. I would have thrown them a few dollars if they’d put a hat out. Meanwhile, I was just happy when George managed to sit, lie down or come when I called him.

  He continued to show modest improvement, and even though it was unlikely, I dreaded the thought that George might someday be called forward as the demo dog. That day did come, however; in week six, when the female instructor was preparing to demonstrate a sit-and-stay drill. She surveyed the class and said, “George, why don’t you come up and show us how to do this one.”

  “Oh no,” I muttered. I had George on his leash when she called him, and at the sound of his name he yanked me toward her, his whole back end wagging. I held my ground … barely. The whole class laughed. “Are you sure you want George?” I asked, as I struggled to hold him back.

  “Oh yes,” she answered. “He can do this. Can’t you, George?” He responded by dragging me the rest of the way across the room to where she stood. I handed her the leash. “He’s all yours.”

  Sit-and-stay drills are as simple as they sound. The dog is asked to sit. When he obliges, he’s told to stay, and then whoever’s giving the commands slowly backs away while the dog stays put. A lot of dogs will get anxious as the owner backs away and they’ll vent that anxiety by inching forward or just bolting off to their owner before being called.

  George and I had practiced sit-and-stays many times. They sometimes worked, but more often things didn’t go so well. Occasionally he’d sit for a while, but when I gave the command to come, he’d hightail it in any direction except toward me.

  But now, in the hands of the female instructor, he did the task to perfection, not only staying where he was supposed to but sitting regally, beautifully, with his head up and his eyes locked on her.

  “Come!” she called after what seemed like an eternity. George pranced over to her and sat in front of her. When she gave him a treat, he turned and grinned at me like, “See? I got this.”

  I won’t lie. It stung a bit that he behaved better for her than he did for me. I thought we were becoming a better team, but moments like this made me question it. At least he was pleased with himself—strutting around for the rest of the class with his chest puffed out like he owned the place. When she brought him back to me, she smiled and said, “He’s doing so much better. He is definitely more open to taking direction. You’re getting closer.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “We’re both trying hard.” George sat with his head up and tail wagging.

  Although I noticed that he was starting to follow me around in the house on his own, inside and outside class his recall with me still remained a problem. I was reading as many books as possible about dogs—Newfoundlands, in particular—and found out that not having razor-sharp recall wasn’t completely unusual for Newfs. Many won’t come when they’re called, but they also don’t want to be too far from their owners. Food in the form of cookies or other treats was recommended, but considering that George still wouldn’t eat from his bowl in front of me, I was a bit skeptical.

  While practicing in class, I’d tell George to sit and stay, and then I’d walk to the other side of the room and call him. If he came, I rewarded him with a treat, which he sometimes ate and sometimes didn’t. Other more food-motivated dogs seemed to learn things at a faster rate. George learned what he was supposed to not from a desire for food but from watching his classmates and slowly, bit by bit, by paying attention to me.

  A few weeks later he still wasn’t the star, but he was catching on to the point of the class: that we were there to learn things together—and that he would get praise and hugs when, from time to time, he chose to listen. As he worked his way through various commands, he saw how happy it made me and how much love and affection I showered on him when he did as asked, and the praise alone started to work as motivation. Being a bit slow on the uptake became part of his charm, an element of the mountain of personality he’d hidden under all that apprehension. I was inwardly very proud of his improvement and couldn’t help but love the gentle, sweet goofiness that was starting to define his personality.

  On the final night of class we had our most memorable
drill, and this time not because it was a disaster. The task involved gathering every person and dog in the center of the room, with owners and leashed dogs randomly milling about in a cluster. On one side of that massive cluster of distraction, an instructor held the dog whose turn it was, while that dog’s owner headed to the opposite side of the room and crouched behind a screen so the dog could only hear the owner but not see him or her when called.

  Considering that even when George could see me perfectly, his reaction to being called was the dog equivalent of a shrug, I didn’t think the odds of success were good for us. This was reinforced when the first few dogs, who normally zipped through new drills like they had been doing them all their lives, had trouble finding their owners. As George and I milled about in the center of the room, I could hear the pleas of the owners for their dogs to come, but the dogs often looked confused, and panicked before they eventually, sometimes several minutes later, found their owners on the other side of the room. There was no way George would be good at this. He and I were in deep trouble.

  When it was our turn, I took my place behind the screen and the instructor showed me where to peek out so I could watch George’s reactions without being seen by him. He was on leash with the female instructor, on the opposite side of the room, and he was happily trying to nibble her neck and lick the side of her face. As instructed, I called his name with a sense of urgency in my voice. He immediately stopped licking, lifted his head and started scanning the room, looking for me. As the instructor let go of him, I expected him to go right back to licking her face, but instead he continued to vigilantly scan the room.

  “George!” I called. “Come!” This time his head snapped toward the screen, and he intently made his way to my hiding spot. In fact, he was so intent that he didn’t care who he knocked into or over on his way toward me. He was on a mission. I was shocked and amazed. When he got closer, I called again and he began to sprint. He flew around the screen and barreled into me. Tail wagging, he set about furiously licking my face while I was lying on my back. He was so happy that he found me, but not as happy as I was.