Animal Magic

by Carolyn Press-McKenzie

  So now this gentle giant was my companion. With supplements in his feed allowing Drum to move freely and without pain, we would amble to the beach together at every opportunity, me astride his broad bare back, enjoying the easy stroll as though I were sitting on a La-Z-Boy rocker. Drum loved the attention and was in his element lounging around with the motley crew, though he was never drawn into their cheeky antics. He was more the anchor, the sensible one. It was almost as if Drum and I were co-parenting.

  CHAPTER 4

  The magic of breathing

  With the addition of an orphaned lamb called Ernie and a young goat I named Thistle, my motley crew for the post-apocalyptic farm was complete.

  I would still need to hire in some of the animals for filming, like Jane the pig, but after my experiences with Dottie and Mabel, I made the commitment to rescue, rehabilitate and train any required newcomers. When their roles were over I planned to rehome them into enriching and loving families—aside from the original motley crew who stayed with me for the years to come—and that’s just what I did. It was official: I was not going to be exploiting animals for the sake of entertainment, I was going to use the entertainment industry as a vehicle for my rescue work. And, with a few bumps along the way as I learnt my craft, pigs, cows, horses, dogs, cats, rats and others flourished as they left behind the misery of their old lives and embarked on the journey that saw them with a safe and fulfilling future.

  I started getting approached about animals in need, and that’s how Ernie came into my care. I was back at the pig farm to pick up the latest piglet when the farmer told me they had an orphan lamb and asked if I’d take him. I couldn’t resist this vulnerable but strong little soul. As he grew, this little lamb was so sweet and earnest that Ernie proved to be the perfect name. Once castrated and weaned Ernie continued to grow into a surprisingly large sheep, though he remained mild-mannered and gentle. With his diversely enriched and busy upbringing he was never overwhelmed by the crew who offered up an array of cheeky and even bossy personalities. Special Ernie was usually found in the background, quietly assessing each situation, but he never missed out on anything—he was always part of the action.

  When I was hiring the goats for the background scenes I decided it would be easier if I trained the goats myself—it would give me a better and stronger connection with the animals as well as an opportunity to diversify my motley crew family. The people I hired the goats from had milking goats and they had a little wether, or castrated, kid that would be of no use to their venture. I named the innocent little creature Thistle and settled him on my sandy and swampy dunes with the others, where he and Ernie became great mates.

  As Thistle grew in both stature and confidence I got a lesson in the uncanny ability of goats to get into so much trouble. It was an expensive lesson too. He would squeeze through the seven wire farm fencing, showing young Mabel, Dottie and Ernie the way. On more than one occasion I was called by a politely perturbed neighbour who lived about 600 metres up the road. The motley crew had been a delight to meet, but ransacking the verandah and eating all their pot plants just simply wouldn’t do. So I’d dash to the rescue, cheque book in hand, to pay my way out of the awkward situation. And the crew, rather pleased with themselves, would happily trot with me all the way home, promptly fall asleep in a pile and be out for the count while I set about problem-solving the fencing. Thistle was the naughtiness ringleader but I never chained or tethered him; I loved the fact he had the freedom to play with his friends, and to chain him would have just been cruel and lazy. So I battened the fences and as the motley crew matured and grew in size Thistle became somewhat anchored by the others; if they couldn’t join him in his mischief he had second thoughts and rallied a game at home instead.

  So my little 5-acre block was peppered with just the right number of permanent residents to help me on my mission. Through their confidence and routine the newbies learnt the art of socialising, of trust and respect for all other creatures including humans.

  They needed to be a mobile lot, so I bought a home-made tandem walkthrough horse float from an aeroplane pilot for $800. It looked pretty shabby at first glance, but I figured that if a pilot could trust it then so could I. So Drum the Clydesdale, Dottie the piglet, Ernie the lamb, Thistle the kid and a few extras all routinely bundled into the float together, with Drum on one side and the littlies on the other. The nine rats did their acting on the sewer-set days, when the studio was filled with dry ice and steam, and when they were needed they travelled with me in a cage in the car.

  Finding the extra animals required for the TV series’ constantly shifting storyline was a full-on job as some would be killed off and replacements needed; others, like the piglets, would need refreshing. I would receive the scripts weeks in advance, break them down and then start searching for the ‘extras’ and training the ‘heroes’.

  There is a lot of pressure to perform. When I was doing my apprenticeship, I was taught the trade the old-fashioned way: animals worked best when they were starving, not just hungry, but starving. A good two or three days with nothing but a vitamin and mineral supplement paste would do the trick and they wouldn’t take their eyes off the prize. If that failed then taking them around the back of the studio, out of sight of actors and crew, and giving them a swift slap across the head meant they wouldn’t take their eyes off you. I had learned and listened, I had watched the animals work with the expert precision of a robot. But none of it seemed right to me. Not once did an animal in my care feel hungry or feel the slap of my hand over their head.

  In the industry, saying no to a producer or a director is not an option—nor is failing. So I developed my own style very quickly. Trick number one was to always cast an animal that enjoyed the behaviour expected of it. When I was working as an apprentice, I’d go on casting visits, travelling the country for animals with a certain kind of look the director was after. But when I started on my own, my choices were just about personality and a predisposed enjoyment of the behaviour required. For instance, if a dog needed to dig a hole in a scene, I cast a dog that already loved to dig holes, then worked with that behaviour, shaped it and added cues to get it spot on. And of course you had to be sensible; none of the animals could be anxious or shy, and had to be able to enjoy and understand instruction.

  Training an animal to work on set involves teaching them body language. I’d always make myself a valued source of what motivated them. I would start with words and conversations, then move to hand signals. That way they learn to defer to you, and not to do anything unless they get a signal from you. You also train them to work to marks, the positions they need to be in on set, with treats and a clicker. You start with large objects the animal can see easily and send them to stand on or touch the object, and then shrink down the size of a mark to a pebble. The key was teaching the animal confidence at a distance. They needed assurance that just because you weren’t at their side, they could still defer to you wherever you may be. And through all of the craziness it always needed to be about focus . . . but the expectations had to be achievable and fun.

  Trick number two was to breathe. It’s an amazing thing to have such an intense connection with an animal even when you are surrounded by chaos and physically a fair distance apart. The thing with animal actors is that they are just expected to automatically know and understand everything. It’s good to get some basic cues set up, but for the most part it comes down to the trainer–animal relationship and the magic link between them when they work. And with Cloudy the standard poodle pup, the newest cast member of the TV series, I had a very strong connection; she watched my every breath.

  Cloudy was a replacement for Bob the golden retriever, who the writers had killed off in a malicious poisoning by the baddies. But in reality Bob had just moved to Whitby to live with the series producer and his autistic son. He had been trained to respond to a laser pointer by my predecessor, and with the long days on set he had developed a bit of an obsession with lights and shadows. It became
almost like OCD; poor Bob could never turn off. The crew had learnt about his issue and the joke was to flash a light at him whenever they wanted a quick laugh. I was sad to see Bob go. Surprisingly, although my childhood had been blessed with three simultaneous Siamese cats and an assortment of zebra finches and goldfish, and one turtle, Bob was actually the first dog I had ever lived with.

  Cloudy was only five months old and full of beans, so for the action scenes she was stellar, nimble and quick. I would hide up trees, in sewer pipes, in wheelie bins or behind doors. When ‘action’ was called she would fly with the vigour of a superhero to find me, often pawing at whichever container I was hiding in to show her actor/master where the bad guys had hidden the stash or the baby, or to show the way out of a sticky life-threatening situation just in the nick of time. Cloudy was a great hero. But then came the scenes back at Good Guy HQ, where Cloudy had to sit patiently while the human characters had meetings, stood guard or slept. Asking a five-month-old pup to sit is easy peasy, but asking a five-month-old pup to sit still through seventeen takes of lengthy dialogue is another thing.

  To mix things up, on one particular day, the director decided it would be nice for Cloudy to be sitting on the second shelf of a bookcase so she was in full shot.

  ‘Yes, of course we can do that,’ I said with great gusto. ‘Yes, she will stay perfectly in place through all of the takes you need,’ I assured the continuity lady, who also owned dogs and looked a little unconvincingly at my can-do smile.

  So action was called and Cloudy sat perched on her shelf. I was positioned behind the camera about 6 metres away. She held her eyeline, meaning she was engaged and focused on me.

  ‘Aaaand, cut. We are going again,’ bellowed the director.

  Cloudy sat strong through takes one to five, but then her seams started unravelling, she began to fidget and was looking for an out. I had been popping on and off the set between takes to give her a kiss on the forehead and some treats. But the hot lights, the hard shelf and the absolute boredom were wearing her thin.

  And that’s when the magic of breathing saved my butt and Cloudy’s sanity. To connect with your dog by breathing is something that is overlooked in most everyday people–canine relationships and yet it is the most powerful tool. Throughout my 29-year career it is probably the single most important gift I have learnt. I call it a gift because it is truly something special, almost inexplicable. But if I were to try to explain I would say that breathing with your dog is about shutting out the world and simply looking into each other’s eyes and truly connecting.

  Back on set, it was up to me to steer the ship, and as I calmed my body language and relaxed my shoulders Cloudy started to mirror my actions, matching my slow thoughtful breathing. I shut my eyes as though sleepy, and her eyelids became heavy. No matter what the actors or the crew were doing, no matter how stressed the set around us became, as the scene was repeated time after time after time, Cloudy and I remained in the zone.

  ‘And it’s a wrap,’ the director finally called with relief in his voice.

  One of the assistant directors came over to me and smiled. ‘Gosh, Cloudy looks as though she enjoyed just chilling on that shelf. Some days you must find your job is just so easy.’

  Soon after starting my contract with the TV series I was called into one of the producers’ offices.

  ‘Carolyn, I just thought I’d let you know that I have had a call from a very angry woman.’

  My heart sank. What could I have possibly done?

  ‘She claims that you are an impostor and are trying to pass yourself off as her.’

  ‘Oooh,’ I said slowly as the penny dropped. It must have been my old boss. Apparently she was mad that I had left her to go out on my own.

  The producer, who was a very serious lady and never let her feelings show, gave the tiniest of smiles. ‘That will be all,’ she said, and I was ushered out of the room.

  I guess they knew I was me and that there was no problem . . . but what a funny phone call to receive.

  CHAPTER 5

  Beethoven and body doubles

  I was so excited when I got the job as the animal trainer for a full-length feature film.

  The TV series was taking a break and the producer of the feature assured me that filming was only going to be a six-week shoot.

  When I received the script I was buzzing and set about breaking it down, working out which animals I would need. The movie was called Snakeskin and was essentially about two small-town teenagers so consumed with the desire to have an American-style adventure that they embark on a road trip of the South Island. Along the way they meet all sorts of characters, and end up in a life-threatening chase with some pretty scary skinheads. And that’s where I came into it. I was to provide the skinheads’ super-aggressive dog. As I read more into the script I found I also had to provide some chooks, some goats and about 60 slimy slithering eels . . . easy peasy!

  My first call was to my friend Sarah who was working at a local vet’s practice. She had mentioned to me that there was a poster on their noticeboard advertising a mastiff cross, an awesome beast in the flesh, and he just happened to be looking for a new home. I called the number and an elderly woman answered and confirmed that her dog Murphy was looking for a new family as he was too strong for her and her husband who both suffered from debilitating arthritis.

  Murphy was five years old and had been acquired from a gang headquarters when he was one. Apparently the elderly woman’s husband had been working as a case worker and when visiting the address saw Murphy struggling in a cold and harsh environment, so one day he just picked up his chain when no one was home and walked the young and vulnerable pup off the property. But four years later the couple were no longer able to walk Murphy and they had been keeping him at a boarding kennel while they waited for just the right owner to come along.

  I decided to check out the 60-kilogram big boy. There was no need to commit, I told myself, it would just be an initial casting interview. As I entered the kennels I was led down a corridor into a small windowless cubicle with four high walls and a small stable door. There was Murphy, a huge bright red monster, in an area not much bigger than him.

  ‘Can I take him for a walk?’ I asked the kennel assistant. My instincts were telling me it would not be wise to cramp his style in such a confined space.

  The answer was yes and a lead was clipped onto his collar. Well, I am sure if I had been wearing roller skates I could have taken out even the meanest and fastest roller derby team. Murphy pulled with such immense strength along the thin and winding track I literally had to throw my body around a tree and anchor him to a standstill. He was semi-feral from months of being kennelled, and bigger than one of the hounds of the Baskervilles as depicted by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. But as I zoned into my breathing and he calmed beside me I could see he was really just a big softy, not a scary skinhead dog at all. Nope, he wasn’t what was needed for the role and it would be a bad career move to cast him.

  As we walked back to the kennel assistant, both of us in a much calmer state than when we had left for our walk, I nodded and said, ‘Yes, I’ll take him.’

  He may not have been right for the movie, but there was no way I was putting him back in the cubicle . . . and, anyway, I was a little bit in love already.

  Back at the bus Murphy was amazing, though that first night was a little hairy. Murphy made himself comfortable on the couch, and responded with a low menacing growl if I tried to sit next to him or move him. I knew it was up to me to find a way for us both to process our new relationship. It was my responsibility to be confident and give him direction. His hard edge softened the more he learnt to listen and respect me and as we developed our sensible and safe pecking order, I learnt some things about myself as an animal trainer.

  I could teach any animal to do just about anything, but bringing Murphy into my life was different; he wasn’t there to learn from me. It seemed that I was there to learn from him. He was my first real-life project. O
f course I had been around socially damaged animals before, such as my childhood family cat, Beauregard, some of the race horses I had worked with and even Dottie and Mabel in the beginning. But Murphy was my first canine with real social issues. I had to put the work in and not fail this big boy.

  As I started to develop a strategy I thought about how much the wrong environment could damage a life. So, as I taught him to defer to me, and showed him that I was a calm and confident leader, I kept him engaged, enriched and busy. The more he learned and understood our relationship, the more the old inappropriate behaviours faded and the happier Murphy became. As our connection deepened his past life became a distant memory.

  Pondering on my not-so-failed failed mission with Murphy, I may have found myself the companion that I never knew I wanted. But I still needed to cast the scary skinhead dog. Then the phone rang. It was Sarah from the vet’s again: she had just seen a client who had a Staffy cross called Beethoven, who she described as a ‘moving hunk of muscle’.

  Beethoven was the real deal. His family lived at Otaki Beach in a converted garage and Beethoven’s adoring mum was proud to tell me of his gang connections. In fact, the story was surprisingly similar to Murphy’s except Beethoven had been older when he found his freedom. He had been used for breeding and fighting before this gutsy lady had told her family no more and took charge of his destiny. For my purposes he was perfect. I told her that I would need to take him away with me for at least six weeks and I could pay her $600. She agreed with a smile and told me what made him tick, his likes and dislikes. Top of the dislike list was other dogs. Given the opportunity, she said, he’d kill them. So it was decided that Beethoven would be my travelling companion. I was going to train him to growl and bark on cue and I would keep him safe and happy.