Bones Would Rain from the Sky: Deepening Our Relationships with Dogs

by Suzanne Clothier

  magic knots At a seminar years ago, I was asked to work with a difficult and very powerful dog. After perhaps half an hour, I had him sitting quietly beside me, able to control himself no matter who ran in or out of the door or who walked by with another dog. This was tremendous progress for a dog who earlier that day had literally blown the door off a crate and bounded across the room to grab another dog. We had started our work with the dog wearing his usual leash, a massive thing that would have been entirely appropriate for restraining an elephant. As the dog had relaxed and learned some self-control, I had switched to lighter and softer leads, first a sturdy but light canvas lead and, finally, dredged up from the bottom of my bag, a thin leather lead with many knots. I remember being surprised when someone handed me this lead-it was my "show" lead, used only when showing my German Shepherds, the knots useful in maintaining a grip on the lead. But it was suitable for my use with this dog, and I thought nothing more about it-all I really wanted was the lightness in my hand. The dog's progress was remarkable, and I could see wheels turning in many audience members' heads. Mentally, I thanked the dog for having given such a lovely demonstration of how quickly simple concepts could translate into changes in a dog's behavior without the need for force or punishment. "Any questions?" I asked the audience. A woman raised her hand, frowning a bit as she said, "I can see that really made a difference. But I'm not sure how to apply that to my own dog." Before I could shape an answer, she continued, "Where exactly do you tie the knots?" The knots? I stared stupidly at her, completely stumped, unable to answer her at all. She leaned forward and pointed at the dog. "He got much better after you used the leash with the knots. What I want to know is exactly where I should tie the knots in my leash. Is there a specific formula you use depending on the dog's size?" My husband later pointed out that I should not have laughed while trying to explain that it was only an accident that my show lead was even in my training equipment bag. Right then and there, he noted with a Barnumesque side I hadn't seen before, I might have sold her (at a hefty price no doubt) a "Magical Knots" lead, or at least have offered to customize a Magical Knots lead for her and her own dogs. Even though she had watched me at every step as the dog progressed, she had latched onto the lead as the key ingredient in my success with the dog and so had been stuck in the wrong question, "Where exactly do you tie the knots?" All of us, at some time or another, in a variety of ways, ask about the magic knots. What we really want to know is how to deepen and enhance the connection between ourselves and our dogs, how to encourage the moments where we and our dogs move together through life in harmony and mutual understanding. Books and videos can tell us how to teach them tricks or how to stop our dogs from digging in the garden or can help us care for them throughout their lives. And we read all that and impatiently shake our heads, because there's something else we want, something else we're actually trying to ask when we ask about magic knots. Though we may not be able to articulate it, what we want is what Antoine de Saint-Exupery described in Wind, Sand and Stars: "Love does not consist in gazing at each other but in looking outward together in the same direction."

  But finding our way to such a relationship is not easy. And even if we've been there before, as Wendy had with Mel, we cannot take the same path when we begin another journey with another dog. Each relationship walks its own way. Complicating matters even further, Wendy's relationship with Mel was a blessing, a gift of grace, not the result of knowledge or deliberate choice on Wendy's part. While such relationships are powerful and take us to a point of connection we may not have dreamed possible, we may be in for a rude awakening when we find ourselves back at the first step, with a new dog at our side, and not sure how to get where we want to go. We've been there, and we think we know the way; and then, when we're the ones who must set the course and choose the path, we realize that we've not done this before. While we have been where we want to go again, we realize with humility and gratitude that it was the old soul of a dog like Mel who had carried us safely there. And now, we need to find our own way. in search of what Is possible Though she had enjoyed the beginner's class, Wendy had become increasingly uneasy with what she saw in the more advanced training. It was common to see dogs being dragged across the room by their collars or shouted at or jerked off their feet with fierce leash corrections. Unwilling to cio this to her dog despite the instructors' adamant "this is how it must be done," Wendy began to attend classes only intermittently, using the situation to work with Chance as she wanted to, trying not to see what was happening to the dogs around her. The night came when Wendy could no longer ignore what she saw. In disbelief and horror, she and Chance watched as the instructor pinched a young dog's ear to force the dog to open her mouth and accept a dumbbell, a common technique in use for many decades and hotly defended by those who use it as the only reliable method for training a dog to retrieve on command. In her pain and confusion, the dog only tightened her jaws and fought to get free. Declaring the dog to be particularly stubborn, the trainer instructed the dog's owner to help her in a "stereo" ear pinch, meaning that while the trainer pinched one ear, the handler would be doing the same to the other ear. The dog screamed in protest, struggling to get away, but the trainer did not stop until-after many minutes comthe dog went limp. Looking at this sweet dog who now lay dazed, eyes filled with fear and pain, Wendy felt sick. She looked down at Chance to promise him that she would never do that to him, no matter what. As her dog raised his eyes to hers, she saw an immense sadness in his face. Within her head, she heard him ask clearly, "Why are we here?" It was a very good question, and Wendy knew the answer. She never again returned to that training class. Although Chance had already earned his first obedience title, Wendy-unable to find a trainer whose approach felt comfortable and right to her-had lost interest in formal obedience training. But she was still deeply worried about Chance's tendency to bolt. Each time he had run away, she could see that his mind and body were no longer connected. His eyes were flat, empty, his body moving in panicked flight from whatever had upset him. Until he calmed down, he would not return to her unless she or someone managed to catch him. Each time he ran away, Wendy knew his life was in danger; living in suburbia, it was only a matter of time before he was hit by a car and injured or killed. Concerned for his safety, Wendy had tried everything that had been suggested by various trainers but with no success. At times, Chance still ran as though his life depended on it. Although her experience in training class had left her shaken and distrustful of trainers in general, she sought out a well-known trainer and author who promised a "motivational" approach. After briefly working with Chance, the trainer told Wendy that an electric shock collar was the only solution that might save his life. Reluctantly, Wendy agreed. The private lesson began innocently enough. The trainer carefully fitted the shock collar to Chance's neck, then suggested that they wait for half an hour or so for the dog to forget about this new collar before they worked with him in a large, fenced-in field. As they waited, Wendy noticed that even though nothing much had happened yet, Chance was already showing signs of feeling stressed. His ears, normally pricked with interest His in his world, were held flattened sideways in a position she thought of as "airplane ears." This was not a good sign. Out in the field, he became even more apprehensive when Wendy removed the leash as the trainer directed and, leaving Chance on a sit stay, walked roughly twenty feet away. "Call him," the trainer said, and Wendy did, but even as the words left her mouth, she knew her dog was no longer in his mind. His eyes went blank in that all-too-familiar way. Ears now folded back tightly against his head, Chance bolted past Wendy and began to run in frantic loops along the field's fence. "Call him again!" the trainer urged, but Wendy's command did not register on the dog, who ran on and on. The trainer hit the button on the remote transmitter that sent a signal to the collar. When the shock registered, Chance leaped off the ground, screaming and snarling in surprise and pain, twisting in the air as he tried desperately to bite at the collar itself. Noting, "He probably can't
hear you over himself," the trainer told Wendy to call him again and again, but nothing penetrated Chance's terror. At that moment, Wendy's heart spoke up loud and clear: This is not what you do to a dog you love. No longer caring what the trainer had to say, Wendy moved to catch the frantic dog in her arms. Only then did the trainer take her thumb off the button-she had been sending shocks to Chance all that time. "Well, that should fry his little brain," the trainer noted with satisfaction, adding that he might need a "tune-up" session as a reminder in a few months. She pointed out how successful this training session had been. Indeed, Chance now stood anxiously watching Wendy, afraid to let her move more than a few feet from him. It was true that the bolting behavior had disappeared; what was not evident in that moment was the new behavior that had taken its place. After that session, Chance was unwilling to stay in any position for any reason, even if Wendy went no farther than the end of a six-foot lead. For months afterward, Wendy had to return to the baby steps of puppy training to rebuild the confidence destroyed in just a few wretched minutes. Worse still, when Chance was able to once again successfully hold his stays, the bolting behavior reappeared with a vengeance. But now he would bolt in almost any situation, and without showing any of the early warning signs that had previously alerted Wendy to a potential problem.

  More than two years later, they stood in my training field, the cumulative weight of mistakes and misunderstanding heavy between them. Riddled with guilt for what she had allowed to happen, Wendy had slowly resigned herself to the fact that Chance was going to have a limited life. Only the gentle insistence of a mutual friend had convinced her that I might be able to help without hurting Chance in any way. After attending one of my seminars to watch me work, Wendy had agreed. Watching Chance and Wendy as we walked out to my training field, I had no doubt that she loved her dog and that he loved her. But I knew from a lifetime of mistakes with animals that love alone was not always enough to carry someone where they longed to be. I understood how bewildering it was to stand lost at the end of a road that had been taken in good faith, each turn made in hope, every step fueled by a deep desire to get someplace that looked nothing at all like this unexpected destination. The road she had taken was a road whose twists and turns I knew all too well. But I also knew the way back. And I knew that all Wendy needed to find her own way back to where she had meant to go all along was contained in one simple phrase: What is possible between a human and an animal is possible only within a relationship. The relationship between Wendy and Chance had been damaged, not destroyed; without repair, the damage would forever limit what was possible between them. The restoration of trust and joy that had once flowed between them began when I asked her to see the world through Chance's eyes. He was simply a dog, and for all his intelligence, his understanding of his world was shaped by what the person he loved and trusted had done and allowed to happen. He did not understand good intentions. He did not realize that her mistakes had been the result of misplaced faith in trainers. He knew only that there was no joy left in working with her, that she had repeatedly ignored or misunderstood what he told her when he lay on the ground in mute resignation or when he fled fearfully away, pushed beyond his limits. In every way he could, Chance had told her how he felt, but she had not heard him. He was simply a dog, and he had no way to solve this. He was left only with his prayers. Once, perhaps, he had prayed to be heard; now he prayed for escape.

  Gently, for I had been in the same place where this sad, sweet woman now stood, I asked, "If you were Chance and all that you just described had happened to you, would you feel safe? Would you trust your person? Would you look forward with joy and anticipation to working together? Would you want to be in a relationship like this?" Her face sagged as she shook her head. For a long moment, she stared at her feet, then raising her head, looked me in the eye: "I love my dog. I never wanted to hurt him. I just wanted to train him, give him freedom. And I trusted that those damn trainers knew more than I did." She paused, struggling not to. cry. Taking a deep breath, she asked, "What do I do now?" To reclaim the trust that had been lost, Wendy and Chance were going to have to learn new ways to work together. In everything she did, she had a choice: She could either support and enhance the relationship with her dog, or undermine it. She would need to learn to see the world from her dog's perspective, so that she could understand how and why her actions either dimmed or encouraged the light in his eyes. With consideration for the differences between herself and a dog, she needed to treat Chance as she would want to be treated, with the loving respect she would treat any beloved friend. Communication would improve when she learned to say what she meant in ways the dog could understand, when she was able to listen to what Chance told her in his body language and responses. Her dog would never lie to her, but she had to learn to trust that what he told her was his truth at that moment. Everything she did with Chance had to be guided by this one elemental point: Does this help or harm the relationship? "But where do I begin?" she asked. In my head, her question was an echo of so many other students who had also asked, "How do you do this?"-as if building or repairing a relationship with an animal was a specific skill that could be explained and taught like teaching their dogs to heel or come when called. In trying to answer them, I have always felt a bit like the artist who, when asked how to paint, responded, "It's easy. You put the red where the red goes and the green where the green goes and the yellow where the yellow goes. ..." I also remember Matisse's response to a woman who thoughtlessly asked how long it had taken him to paint a picture: "A few hours . . . and my whole life." I know what it is to long for a recipe, to hope for magic knots, to want a shortcut to knowledge that can be gained in only one way-practice, persistence and experience. When I was first studying with Linda Tellington-Jones, I asked her which place on an animal's body was the best place for beginning the hands-on work. Linda replied, "Anywhere is fine. Unless the animal tells you otherwise. Then pick another spot." This answer initially maddened me. I wanted what I did to be perfect, and I wanted the precise recipe to achieve the results I so admired in Linda's work with animals. But I slowly came to realize that the reply that so frustrated me was a completely truthful answer, one that contained a great deal of the wisdom that informs Linda's work with animals. To begin the dialogue between human and animal so that a relationship may develop is like starting any conversation. You have to pick a starting point, and if that doesn't work, you pick another one, and if necessary another, until at last you find a point of agreement. And then you begin to explore the common ground, feeling your way as you go, always listening to the animal, the only one who can tell you when you've got it right. "All right," I told Wendy. "Here's how we're going to start repairing this relationship. Leave Chance where he is-it doesn't matter that he's not looking this way. I want you to say nothing but take a step parallel to him. Don't move toward him; just keep taking slow steps until Chance notices. He will. And when he looks your way, don't say a word. Just toss him a treat." Puzzled, she did as I said. Still deep in his prayers at the end of the leash, Chance glanced over his shoulder when he caught Wendy's movements in his peripheral vision. He was surprised by the unexpected treat that landed next to him. Briefly, he looked at Wendy before reaching for the food and then turning away to resume his prayers. She took another step, and again he glanced over his shoulder. Another treat and this time a long contemplative stare from the dog before he turned away. A few more steps, more tidbits, and then it happened. Chance swallowed the food and then slowly approached Wendy. He stood looking up at her, clearly questioning this unusual turn of events. She fed him a little more, and while he ate, we could see the wheels turning as he thought over the situation. As if to test what he believed might be happening, the dog turned away from Wendy and stared off into the distance. "Wait," I told her, "don't move and just wait." For what seemed an eternity, Wendy and her dog stood motionless, frozen in a tableau of disconnection. Then, deliberately, without being asked, because he chose to, Chance turned back to her
and looked straight into her eyes, his tail wagging. From that moment on in that training session, there was no getting rid of him. Like Mary's lamb, wherever Wendy went, Chance was sure to go. Amazed and delighted, Wendy moved in every possible direction, even trying to run away from him, but Chance was always there beside her, his eyes shining. Over and over she kept shaking her head in disbelief, saying it couldn't be as easy as that. "I know it sounds too simple," I agreed, "but look at your dog. What is he telling you?" With a wistful smile, she looked at the dog who stood watching her with bright eyes and a softly wagging tail. "He's telling me that he's happy." "Then believe him!." I smiled. "He's never lied to you, and he never will. If you want to know if something works for Chance, ask him. He doesn't care how silly or simple something may seem to you. If it works for him, that's all that matters." For Wendy, the repair efforts of the next few months required concentration and focus, but it was work she gladly embraced. With each day, their relationship grew stronger. In Chance's resistance, she no longer saw a dog with "a will to displease." She saw a beloved friend saying "I don't understand" or "This bores me" or "I can't do that." And then she helped him understand, or made it more interesting, or switched to something more exciting, or asked for something he could do. She opened her eyes to the subtleties of his every movement and began to understand what a flick of an ear or a glance really meant. Chance no longer needed to bolt away or lay down to be heard. He began to trust that Wendy saw the quieter messages written in the slight drop of his tail or the folding of his whiskers against his muzzle. Confident in her support, he began to try harder, now willing to work with her in partnership as they joyfully mastered new skills together.