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

by Suzanne Clothier

  No recipes At work in all our intimate relationships is a desire for harmony, for togetherness, for friendship; we long to both love and be loved, to understand and be understood. What is the recipe for such a relationship? There isn't one. There can't be. Recipes are only a beginning, a guide by which you begin to learn the basics. Without recipes, we must reinvent the wheel, which, though possible, is time-consuming and not always successful. Imagine if each of us had to learn to make a cake from scratch, but we had no guide as to what ingredients went into a cake. Even though we have seen cakes and eaten them, unless we had watched someone else make one from scratch we might stare at the cupboard for a long time (eternity?) before thinking to blend some butter, sugar, flour and eggs to create a tasty treat. A recipe is a shortcut to a limited form of knowledge, though not necessarily to experience or even success. The basics of dog behavior and the training of dogs Can be learned through recipes. At this simple level of training and relationship, there are basic ingredients that you will need to know about. This book trusts that at some other time, through the many "cookbooks" available, you have already mastered the basic recipes for a life shared with animals. But there is a limit to what such books can offer. There are only a limited number of ways by which you can teach your dog to sit on command or walk politely at your side, just as there are only a limited number of ways to make an ordinary cream pie. This book trusts that you want to know more. While an ordinary pie is delicious, it is possible to create something even more remarkable and memorable, something that satisfies far beyond a basic level. In cooking, there is a level where the basics have been thoroughly mastered so that recipes are no longer necessary or even desired. At this point, experience and knowledge become a springboard for cooking as an art, each creation as individual as the cook herself as she selects the ingredients and proportions that delight her. Beautiful improvisations on a theme become the goal. A chocolate cream pie previously concocted of instant pudding, Cool Whip and a store-bought crust may now be made of the finest Belgian chocolate laced with elegant swirls of raspberry liquer and nestled atop a delicate crust of hazelnut and gingersnaps. Because such a creation springs from a desire to take the experience to new heights of intensity and subtlety, because it is created from feel from a little of this and a touch of that, the cook herself may be unable to offer a precise recipe. Attempts to get such a recipe creates the maddening scenario where a budding cook tries to get Grandma to surrender the recipe for her famous pie crust only to discover that Grandma long ago lost the need for measuring cups and just puts in what's needed until "it feels right." It is not possible to develop a deep relationship with an animal simply because you know and can recite the basic ingredients, no more than you can match Grandma's famous pastry armed only with the information that a pie crust is made of flour, shortening, and a splash of ice water. While you need to know these basics, such knowledge is not enough. You're going to have to make as many pie crusts as Grandma did, until it feels right in your hands, until the sense of what makes a pie crust right is in your bones. Grandma may give you useful tips to help you as you practice, but the experience and excellent results will come only with time and effort. You may choose a poorer-quality flour or a different shortening or decide not to invest so much time in perfecting your pie crusts; the results will reflect your choices. In reaching for this book, you are moving toward the deeper levels in a relationship with an animal, where recipes are no longer useful or even possible. The stories in this book will not help you create predictable, Wonderful results with the animals in your life; instead, they offer useful tips that when combined with experience and practice, help you get it "just right." I can tell you what ingredients seem to be common in healthy relationships, but it's up to you to create your own special recipe, one that uniquely reflects how you share your life with animals. The specific techniques that worked for the relationships in this book may not be appropriate or useful for you. From this point on in the journey, you must collect your own ingredients and brew them, stew them or swallow them whole as it suits you and your dog and your relationship. I do have one recipe I can pass along. It may seem all too reminiscent of Grandma's pie crust, but it's a good one.

  Take one lifetime with animals. Grind it hard against mistakes and misunderstanding. Season heavily with the desire to get it right, and layer generously with the forgiveness of every animal who passes through your hands. Stew for years, being sure that gifted teachers (animal or human) stir the mess from time to time as needed so it keeps cooking. Serve when it begins to get clear. Yield: a few precious drops worth having. Each relationship with an animal and a human is a bridge uniquely shaped to carry only those two, and so must be crafted by them. Though the work of a lifetime, the building and repairs are done slowly, in the heart's time, one beat after another. And it is thirsty work, as work of the heart always is, for the heart thirsts after the things that are invisible to the eye, things you cannot grasp with your hand. Simple notions, these few drops I've thus far distilled from a lifetime of learning from animals. But they are surprisingly satisfying to a thirsty heart. Chance and Wendy have become my good friends. They live not far from us, and happily, they share our passion for the farm's open spaces and hemlock woods, for shaggy cattle with horns and afternoon walks with a pig or a turkey. Chance now has the life and freedom that Wendy had always wanted for him. Some days when Wendy works, Chance stays here with us, and the black plume of his tail waving in the tall grass is a familiar sight as I look out my office window onto the yard and the pastures beyond. My nickname for Chance is Einstein, meant as a tribute to this dog's intelligence. When I call him by that famous name, he always smiles. I know that his namesake long ago defined the speed at which light travels, but each day, this good black dog reminds me of an even more amazing phenomenon-the speed at which forgiveness travels in a dog's eyes. Through the grace of a dog's forgiveness, and by keeping the relationship with her dog as the defining factor in all she did with him, Wendy and Chance ultimately achieved more than she had ever dared dream possible. One day, a trophy unexpectedly arrived in the mail, accompanied by a certificate declaring Chance the top-scoring obedience dog among all mixed breeds in the Northeast, an honor Wendy was unaware they had won. But how far they have come in their relationship is not best defined by any trophy. For Wendy, the watermark was an incident at a practice competition. Competing at an advanced obedience level, she and Chance had done very well. As Wendy set him for the final exercise, the broad jump (an exercise that requires the dog to stay while the handler walks away and then-on command-jump a low, wide hurdle), she was extremely pleased with their performance. Turning to face the jump, she noticed that the trainer who had tried to "fry his little brain" was standing outside the ring, only a few feet from where Chance sat. Realizing that Chance had also seen the trainer, Wendy understood the message contained in what her dog did next. Chance looked at the jump, at Wendy, and then, with a brief glance at the trainer who had been the source of so much pain, quietly got up and walked away. The judge, not understanding that the dog had good reason for what he had done, was surprised when Wendy softly called Chance to her and prepared to leave the ring. "Don't you want to take him back and try that again? It's a practice show, so you can try again if you like." Wendy knew it was impossible to explain what Chance had said so clearly in his behavior. "No, sir," she said. "I think my dog has done well today, and I am very pleased with him." The puzzled judge shook his head, questioning her decision. "All right," he said with a shrug. "It's your dog." With a big smile, Wendy agreed. "You're right. He is my dog." And she and Chance walked out of the ring as they had entered it-together. I haven't seen Chance pray in a long, long time. He has no need. All his prayers have been answered.

  dances with dogs Folk will know how large your soul is, by the way you treat a dog. charles F. doran

  I DO NOT KNOW WHAT THE TURTLE THOUGHT. I hope that any fear it may have felt quickly disappeared, leaving only a vague, dreamlike recollection. For me
, the memory is a sweet, clear picture: It is a summer's evening, and as I ride, the tall grass brushes in whispers against my feet, keeping time with my pony's steps. At the edge of the field where the grass grows thin and short under the shade of the trees, I can see my dog Bear sniffing at something. I turn my pony in that direction, and as we approach, Bear looks up, his eyes bright with excitement. "What have you found?" I ask, and in reply, he turns to gently pick up a box turtle. "Give it to me," I tell him, leaning down from the saddle, and he strains to offer me this gift. I cannot reach that far, and seeing this, Bear stands on his hind legs, bracing his front paws against the pony's shoulder. I take the turtle from him, thanking him for

  this lovely surprise. As I examine the intricate tracery of colors and grooves, the size and the wear on the shell tells me this is an old turtle who has seen much, though I suspect his brief journey in Bear's mouth was a new experience. As my pony stands patiently waiting, I hold the turtle level on my hand, hoping he will peek out. Cautiously, the wrinkled head appears, and for a moment, the tables are turned-one deep orange eye unblinkingly considers me, the color shocking against the dull brownish gray of the turtle's head. Finding me of little interest, the eye snaps shut and the turtle closes into himself once more. "We need to put him back now," I tell Bear, and once again he rears to stand against the pony. With surprising delicacy, his powerful jaws close on the turtle, and with infinite care, he places the turtle on the ground right side up before stepping back to stand watching for what might happen next. Impatient, Bear gives it a little push, his wet nose cutting a trail through the dust of the turtle's back, revealing a splendid dark tapestry of color. But the turtle doesn't move. I turn the pony away, and calling my dog, we continue on our way. When I think of Bear, it is memories like this that fill me with joy. But our journey together was not always as uncomplicated as that summer's evening ride that had no purpose but to move through the fields on an old gray pony with a dark wolf of a dog beside me. It would be nice to report that all my moments with animals were sweet and good ones, that from the day I was born, people mistook me for the sister of Saint Francis of Assisi, or perhaps Dr. Doolittle's daughter. I would prefer to write a self-congratulatory tale of how I instinctively treated all animals with the utmost respect and tenderness. I wish that I could claim that I cannot fathom how or why people who say they love animals are nonetheless willing to use horrific techniques in the name of training. But none of that would be true, though most of my mistakes and selfish acts went largely unnoticed, private affairs between me and an animal. Here's a memory that is not a beautiful one: I am fourteen and-desperate for a dog of my own-I spend so much time with the neighbor's Collie that everyone considers me his surrogate owner. I have taught him many tricks, some so subtly signaled that gullible onlookers believe the dog has magical powers. Frustrated that I don't own a dog, I have trained Brandy to jump the weird assortments of chairs, broomsticks and lawn furniture that I drag from the garage and arrange in some semblance of an Olympic show-jumping course. He is an athletic dog, and willing to please me in anything I ask of him. One afternoon, after he has sailed clear over my head on command, I cockily inform kids from the neighborhood that this dog could probably jump anything-even my Bother's Buick station wagon. When they scoff at my boast, I point to the car and tell Brandy to jump. He flies joyfully through the air, his sable-and-white fur flowing, and then he lands hard on the car's hood. As he scrambles for some purchase on the slick metal, he spins slightly toward me, and I see his eyes, surprised and afraid, silently questioning me. I am sick with the knowledge that I have betrayed a trust. Becoming truly humane in my relationships with animals has been a slow and painful evolution that required me to look carefully at the darker corners of my soul. Unlike the external evolutionary pressures on a bird to grow extraordinary feathers in order to attract a mate, the selective pressure on the soul comes only from within. You can hear this force at work if you listen closely. It may be what the psalmist meant when he wrote of "the small still voice inside you." But it can also be quite easily ignored. I was twenty-one years old with a whopping three years of experience as an animal professional already under my belt when I acquired Bear, my first German Shepherd. Though my enthusiasm for training animals far outran my skill, Bear managed to figure out what I meant. In our daily life, he was a wonderful companion. Whether walking through dense, hectic crowds at a concert in Central Park or exploring nearby woods with me, I had but only to say a word or give a hand signal to get a quick, happy response from Bear. He was as comfortable lying quietly in a department store dressing room as waiting outside the local post office. He was a very good dog. The problems began when I decided that we should enter obedience competitions. It seemed a simple matter to meet the requirements; after all, he'd handled much more challenging situations in real life. Ever the perfectionist, I became unpleasantly focused on the importance of precision in performance, worried about the points that might be deducted if his response was a hair slow or his sit a wee bit crooked. I began to nag at him, bemoaning his stubborn refusal to practice the same thing over and over again. At times, during practice of heeling off leash, Bear would veer away from me to lie on the porch ignoring my pleas, impervious to my demands. I grew frustrated with his lack of desire for retrieving the official wooden dumbbell. How could this be the same dog who would fetch sticks or balls until my arm grew weary? This was the dog who would voluntarily retrieve turtles, but my commands to fetch a simple wooden dumbbell were met with reluctance or even downright refusal. Had anyone asked, I would have confidently insisted that Bear and I had a wonderful relationship. But there was a difference between our relationship during training and what we had when he lay at my feet watching the sunset or happily galloped along next to my pony. At a level I could not yet define, training served to push us away from each other. Somehow, it weakened our relationship; we were out of synch, frustrated and even downright unhappy at times. There were times when I decidedly did not like Bear-specifically when he refused to do what I wanted-though I never stopped loving him. I know there were also many times when Bear did not like me very much, and for good reason: Our communication became a one-way street that went my way or no way. This bothered me a great deal-but not enough to let go of my goals and pay attention to what my dog was telling me. Sure that technical knowledge was the key to what I felt was missing, I devoured books on training and behavior, attended seminars, read more, watched other trainers at work. Along the way I acquired new training skills and a deeper understanding of dogs. This knowledge was useful; in learning a more structured, analytical approach to unraveling the mysteries of behavior and training, I became a better trainer. As the Royal Air Force motto says, "Every handler gets the dog he deserves." And through diligent effort, an endless desire to know more and a passion for becoming an ever-better trainer, I began to deserve and thus received more of Bear's willing cooperation. Proud of my mastery of both jargon and technique, I did not realize that much of what I had learned had clouded the clarity of my connection with animals. Though increasingly technically proficient, I had lost (or more accurately, misplaced) something I could not quite define, something that had existed before the adult me knew more, knew better. Unable to articulate just what was lost, I was still uneasy enough to need to account for this uncomfortable feeling. In the end, the only explanation I could offer myself was that it was not so much a matter of something missing as changed. My previous experiences had been due to a childish view of dogs and training, and now, I assured myself, I had a more mature, adult perspective of the matter, which included sometimes unpleasant but necessary realities. Earnestly trying to follow the example of the trainers I admired, I turned my focus to an intellectual mastery of my chosen profession-and away from my heart. In time, people began to seek me out for help with their dogs, and a dog training school was born. In retrospect, I shudder when I look back, well aware that though I had proclaimed myself a trainer (and had made serious efforts to educate myself in a nu
mber of ways), I was really little more than living proof that a person with a little knowledge can be of some help to those with even less. Often quite uneasy with many of the popular training techniques I read about and saw used by other trainers, yet not totally satisfied with the results I helped people achieve, I kept searching for more-more kindness, more harmony, more joy between dog and human. Always nagging at the back of my mind was an awareness of the gap between training and how I lived day to day with all my animals. I wanted a way to bridge that gap so that there was no sharp distinction between real life and a training session. I needed to find a way to the point where moving between daily life and formal training was only a shift in my focus, not in the relationship between me and the animal.