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

by Suzanne Clothier

  A new approach began to form in my heart. Or, more accurately, a philosophy shaped by my heart began to define my thinking. There was no single moment of epiphany, just a growing awareness that I need look no further than a dog's eyes to find the precise moment when my connection to that dog shifted away from clear and free agreement between us. Did my approach to the dog create resistance, fear, distrust or pain, dimming the clear trusting light in his eyes? Then I had to find a better way. At first unconsciously and then with deliberation, I began to evaluate all methods, philosophies and techniques against just this simple standard: the light in a dog's eyes. Over and over I asked myself, "Does this allow the light to shine?" And in every dog's eyes, I found my answer. Held to this standard, many of the popular theories and principles proved poor guides to the greater intimacy and deeper, more joyful connections I knew were possible with animals. Slowly, I abandoned much of the parochial wisdom and began to open my heart and mind to learning what I wanted and needed to know from those who could best teach me-the animals themselves. In many instances, my desire for another way was unmatched by my ability to find the better way, leaving me frustrated and uncertain where to turn. Unhappily, I found myself using the only techniques I knew, though as softly and effectively as possible. I did not like having to apologize to dogs telling them, "In the long run, this is for your own good." I watched the light in their eyes dim, and I moved as quickly as I knew how to restore the joyful clarity to those unfailing reflections of what I had done. In my soul, I was quite miserable at times. When I was not too arrogant or self-importantly busy to listen to that small still voice inside, I heard the protest deep inside me. I saw all too clearly the pain and confusion in far too many animal eyes. Always, I kept searching for an understanding of how and why what I did dimmed the light. And always, I kept looking for what my heart told me must exist: a way to keep the light shining.

  A gift horse Ironically the direction I sought came from the horse world. This was the world where in my teenage years, I had learned to apply force quickly and effectively in order to control and "master" animals. (and I had learned my lessons well, which at the time earned me great praise from my mentors. But it was hard work indeed to unlearn these same lessons.) On a snowy March morning in a frigid indoor riding arena somewhere in Maryland, I found what I had been seeking.

  I cannot recall just how I found my way to that weekend seminar taught by Linda Tellington-Jones, an internationally respected horsewoman. I was surprised that there were no dull lectures or demonstrations with fully trained horses. Instead, after a brief introduction, this trainer began to teach by example, working directly with the horses who had been brought to the seminar for one problem or another. The first horse was a Thoroughbred mare, who, despite sterling bloodlines and considerable monetary value as a broodmare, was so dangerous that both the veterinarian and the farrier refused to deal with her; just one farm employee could handle her at all. The horse's participation in the seminar was made possible only by the fact that she lived at the farm hosting the weekend. For perhaps half an hour, I watched as this gifted horsewoman worked with this horse, slowly helping her to shift from a desperately flailing blur of hooves to a horse who was trying hard to cooperate despite her fear and anger.

  Riding invisibly on the back of this troubled, beautiful mare, the gift of understanding made its way past the defenses of my intellect and directly to my heart. As I watched, first in arrogant internal argument and then with humble gratitude for what I could not deny, much of what I had diligently learned and faithfully applied was shattered. Learning theories and principles became dry, one-dimensional, inadequate explanations for the rich, multisensory experience of connecting with an animal in a humane and truly holistic way. Tellington-Jones" philosophy, which had sounded good to me on paper, was given authentic form in her every gesture and in her responses to the horse. There was no lip service to "humane training"-this was an integration of heart and mind on a profound level. Watching her work with that seemingly impossible mare, I was moved quite literally to tears; had someone asked me to speak in those moments, I would have been unable to respond. The communication and relationship that I saw between this woman and a horse reorganized portions of my brain in such a way that the pieces never again fit together as they had in the past. This elated me only slightly more than it scared me. It was not easy to accept that my view of the world needed to be redefined, that the map I had created to guide me in my world was now useless for taking me where I wanted to go. In my mind's eye, my old map was crumpled and tossed aside. Armed with fresh crayons, I was going to have to start mapping my world and my understanding of it all over again. Though frightening, I knew that it was also necessary. I had to know more. In the next several years of my study with her, the woman who would become my greatest human teacher shifted me to a whole new level of connection with animals. I thought that I had great respect for animals; she showed me what respect really meant in her attentiveness and responses to the animal. Already known as a kind trainer, I learned that the greatest act of kindness was to see with compassion what the animals told me about their feelings, their fears, their limitations and their abilities. I thought I understood how to communicate with animals; she showed me that I also needed to listen. Respected as someone who had "soft hands," I learned to be softer yet, to ask and not demand, and to patiently wait for the response. When I was ready to hear it, Tellington-Jones stunned me with succinct advice that shot like an arrow to my heart, piercing the arrogance and pride that lay at the root of my failings as a trainer: "Learn to train without ego." And I did, with the help of countless dogs who have kept me honest, some with a few well-timed growls. Slowly, I discovered how to carry the dance of relationship into training sessions. This was not an easy transition for me. On paper, it seems like a joyful and painless process: Trainer finds new way, takes it, animals and people are happy. In reality, finding my way along this new path meant years of work, sorting out excess baggage from the important stuff to be carried along, experimenting with anyone who would stand still long enough for me to test my next theory or idea. The impulsively crumpled previous map of my world had to be retrieved; much of what I had learned was still useful and valid. I struggled along, trying to blend the old and the new, trusting that eventually I would find the balance of technique and philosophy that sat comfortably on my heart. There were extraordinary moments of success when I was able to move in harmony with the animal in a joyful, mutual dance. There were also moments of failure that made me consider closing down my training school or simply giving up and reverting to the old ways. The intense joy of even incomplete successes drove me past my repeated failures, my lifelong reputation for stubborn pursuit of a goal now working in my favor. Years passed-years of experimenting and thinking and getting that blessed connection just right, years of discarding any technique or philosophy that moved me away from an authentic connection of relationship with the animals. Slowly, without my full appreciation or awareness, brief connections became longer moments and then short but joyful dances. Though it required considerable focus and deliberation, finding the connection became easier. Always, I looked for the light in an animal's eyes, trying to move past the fear or distrust or confusion to find the clear light of understanding and being understood, the light of joy and confidence and trust. And then one day, it happened. Without thought or effort, I could find the cool white space within myself where no ego existed, where I had a goal but also no goals at all, where there was only the dog who accepted my invitation to dance, and the world fell away. From that point on, there was no question but that all I did would be directed toward this place where the dance is possible. There was no question but that the only paths I could follow were ones that led me here. When I first met Hobbs, he was leaping like a hooked trout at the end of his lead as his owner led him toward my training room. From our phone conversation, I knew that this little black-and-white dog had bitten five people, and that other trainers had recommended he be pu
t to sleep. I also knew that his owner considered me this dog's last hope. The woman was high strung, anxious, fluttering in her agitation, but I could see that she loved this dog. We talked a little while I watched him. Vibrantly alive, Hobbs quivered with energy that had no outlet, living on his toes, in his skin, barely able to control his own mind. Every sound or slight movement drew his instant attention. When his eyes briefly contacted mine, I saw intelligence and distrust in nearly equal proportions. With my mind, I reached out to him and asked, "Do you want to be this way?" For a moment, there was no response. Then slowly he turned his head and looked into my eyes for a long time. His answer was clear in my head: "No one listens to me." I promised him that I would, and taking the leash from his owner, I began to search for how best to begin. I asked Hobbs to simply walk with me, but he leaped away, pulling hard toward the training room door. I moved with him and stood quietly as he pawed at the door in irritation. In his quick glances at me, I could see that he wished both that the door would open and that I would go away. But the door remained closed, and I stood waiting, gently persistent, softly toning to him. Gradually, he settled down, his breathing normalized, his eyes beginning to lose the hard, quick look of a trapped animal. Again, I invited him to walk with me, and this time he agreed, though he was cautious and still wanted to leave. As we reached the center of the room, he suddenly stopped. When I gave a little tug on the lead, I saw him begin to tense, his whole body stiff with an unspoken challenge, his eyes shifting in a split second to the hard eyes of a dog who is growing angry. He leaned back to set himself against the lead, and I quickly offered a little slack to release the tension. Surprised by this, he relaxed a little but stood watchfully waiting for my next move. I knew he was anticipating that I would insist on going forward, and I could feel him mentally preparing to resist. From the history the owner had provided, I knew that Hobbs would bite me if I pushed him. Though she had claimed that he bit without "any warning," I could see now that this was not true. Hobbs was quite fair. He did give warnings. The problem was that people ignored these warnings, which undoubtedly both frustrated and confused him. Biting, he had learned, was a clear communication that even very unobservant people take note of and respect. He did not know that he was writing his own death sentence. Quietly, I turned back the way we had come, inviting him to join me, which he did without hesitation. We continued to work on simply walking together, asking him to be with me but going only where he was willing to go. Silent until now, his owner spoke up: "Why did you give in to him? How can it be a good thing to let him get away with that? Why don't you just make him do what you want?" I reminded her that precisely that approach had led to this dog biting people. "There is no point in winning a

  battle but losing the war. This dog no longer trusts that anyone hears him when he says no, and so he's ready for a fight. I don't want to fight with him. If I'm going to help him, I need him to cooperate with me. He's got to do it willingly, freely and with trust that I will respect what he tells me. And he is cooperating comhe's just not ready to cooperate in that particular spot just yet." As I said this, we approached the same spot where Hobbs had balked a few minutes earlier. For whatever reason, he stopped again and looked at me. I asked him to go forward, but he did not move. For a long moment, he stood there looking at me. I waited, watching for the signs that he had reached a sticking point. But they never came. The dog took a deep breath, and when I asked one more time, he stepped forward past that mysteriously difficult place and we went on, together. For the next hour, each time we found a point where Hobbs told me he could not go on, I listened. We changed direction, we did less, we tried again. There was a dance between us now, the dog and I, and he had given me the lead. I did not step on his toes in any way. He was soft in my hands, so that a mere flutter of a finger on the lead became a meaningful signal. He was soft in his mind, and it showed in his eyes; the distrust slowly gave way to a cautious belief that I was listening. Soft in his heart, Hobbs gave me all that I asked for. I cannot say where we went or precisely what we did. The world had slid away, and this little black- and-white dog was all I could see or hear. The client spoke up, startling me since I had nearly forgotten she was there. "I can't believe he hasn't bitten you yet." I did not know whether to laugh or cry. I tried to explain to her that I had given this dog no reason to bite me, that by listening to his quiet signals of protest and refusal, he never felt the need to make his point with his teeth. There was no instant cure for this dog. Teaching him trust and learning to read his subtle warning signals would take time, I told his owner. "This is not an easy dog," I reminded her, "but he will teach you a great deal." In her eyes, I saw a quickening of hope and a fierce determination, and I knew that she would find a way to this dog's heart and mind.

  A year later, I received a Christmas card with a photo of Hobbs that I treasure as a reminder of our wonderful dance. To anyone who does not know the whole story, it seems an insignificant though cute picture of a black-and-white dog perched in a pet store Santa's lap. But I remember the first steps that started Hobbs and his owner on the journey to that happy moment, just as I remember my own journey that led me to this place, with this dog, and this dance. listening for the Music Learning to find the dance that is possible within a relationship is not simply a matter of hope or desire. It is a journey of a lifetime. In order to develop profound and intimate relationships with animals, we begin with a shift in our awareness. When we open ourselves to believe that the dance exists, that there is new music that our souls might dance to, we have taken that first, important step. From that moment on, moving forward in our journey means that we need to learn new ways of thinking and behaving while at the same time we sort through, question and perhaps discard the old beliefs that once shaped our thinking and informed our actions. Philosophically speaking, in opening ourselves to new possibilities, we put on our dancing shoes. More than a little stands between us and the joy of mutual connection. The scientific approach so favored by the Western mind insists that we view the dog as an intelligent creature whose behavior is merely the result of either instinct or conditioned responses (like Pavlov's dogs drooling in response to a bell). There is a powerful taboo that insists we not anthropomorphize, or assign human features or characteristics to something nonhuman like a dog. While appreciative of the dangers of anthropomorphizing, I have never understood why the Western mind works so hard to maintain this distance between us and the natural world. I have often wondered, How am I made any less human or my dog any less canine if I am willing to grant that animals feel pain, joy, grief, love, anger, loyalty and more? Respected anthropologist Franz de Waal, writing in Natural History Magazine, points out that this taboo is a terribly lopsided one. While it is acceptable to use words like enemy, hate and rage when describing animal behavior, it is not acceptable to say friend, love or grief. While we are all too willing to share the uglier side of emotional life with the animals, we'd like to reserve the really good stuff for ourselves. Even the rules of correct grammar dictate that it is never an animal who behaves but rather an animal that behaves-a rule that is deliberately broken throughout this book to continually underline the idea that a dog is someone who, not something that. We hold ourselves above them as if something dreadful might happen if we allow ourselves to embrace the notion that perhaps the dog lying at our feet chewing on a tennis ball is also a sentient being with feelings and emotions and thoughts and humor and language and loves and fears and creativity, and we may choke hard on the idea of the dog as a spiritual being. Of course, that something dreadful is just this: If our dogs do feel and think and reason (though not as incomplete versions of us but as fully splendid versions of themselves), then we'd best think long and hard about how we've been treating man's best friend. To be sure, there is a very real danger when we see our dogs as merely little people in fur coats. When we do this, we cannot see past our projections to the real animal that stands before us. Not only does this inevitably limit the full expression of that animal's life, it also
under mines our relationship with that animal. When we cannot see an animal or anyone as they really are, we are bound to be disappointed. We are also bound to act in cruel ways. Think of the grief created by the mother who sees her son as she chooses to see him-a future doctor-when the reality is that her son wants to be a baker. Our dogs cannot be little people in fur coats, nor should they be asked to be. The glory of any relationship is not in finding ways to shape the other to suit our needs, but rather in celebrating the fullness of who they are. In accepting the view of the dog as an

  attractively packaged, user- friendly blend of instinct and conditioned responses, we put on blinders that work to exclude anything that does not fit neatly within that explanatory framework or that cannot be "proven" via scientific method. Even the great scientist Albert Einstein pointed out, "Everything that can be counted doesn't necessarily count; everything that counts can't necessarily be counted." If we cling to a stubbornly Western notion of animals, we may deny the mystery and beauty of what we experience in our daily lives with animals and build barriers that keep us from what is possible in deeper levels of relationship. It is sobering to remember that until relatively recently, the mute or deaf among us were considered inferior in countless ways simply because they could not share the largely verbal language that we use. What makes Helen Keller's story so timelessly compelling is that one person, Anne Sullivan, was able to reach past the known and embrace the possibility that within the damaged physical shell of a blind, deaf and mute child, there was nonetheless a mind and a heart as fully human as her own. In that simple but profound perceptual shift, Anne Sullivan was indeed a miracle worker who opened the floodgates of possibility. To explore the possibilities, we must be willing to shift our view to include dogs as thinking, feeling beings who- while vastly different from us-are very much like us in many ways. In the shift to a view of the dog as a thinking, feeling being, we open floodgates of our own. The technicalities and mechanics of behavior and training are useful and valuable to our understanding of dogs, and I urge all readers to educate themselves continually. As Goethe noted, "There is nothing more frightful than ignorance in action." Limited knowledge means limited choices and limited expression. Every artist, every craftsman, every practitioner of an art (such as animal training) strives to master the tools of their trade for one reason: to allow the full, clear expression of their heart to shine through. To long to express one thing but actually create another, lesser or incomplete thing is a terrible thing to the soul. Still, it is good to balance knowledge with the reminder that the Western mind's rigidly scientific approach to animals is a recent development in the long history of man and dog. Long before learning theories and jargon such as positive reinforcement or stimulus control crept into the world of dog training, long before Skinner ran a single rat through a maze, men and dogs had found ways to dance together. Science cannot explain the beauty and mysteries that deeply move us. It cannot explain the power of a dog's head laid on our knee, or why a man might lay down his life for a friend, or even why we love as we do. Nonetheless, even scientists fall in love, and it is said that some even talk to their dogs. An intellectual understanding of canine psychology, behavior, learning theories and more is helpful and sometimes necessary. By degrees, our knowledge combines with what our hearts tell us, and we move forward in our search for a way to dance with our dogs. To learn to dance with a dog or any other being, the desire must come from within, from your heart. In our search for deeper, more meaningful relationships, we must be careful to recognize that while knowledge is helpful, it can also be limiting, serving to block our view of what is possible, weighing us down so that we cannot move lightly without stumbling. A dancer who concentrates on technicalities may forget to hear the music.