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

by Suzanne Clothier

  on the way to the dance As already noted, finding your way to the dance is not simply a matter of making the right turn somewhere in childhood or when you first acquire a dog. In one way or another, and most often without meaning to, we will stumble against the realization that there are levels of relationship. This is something we already know from our human experience. From the intense bond of parent-child to the very casual one of, say, that with your local dry cleaner, we understand that there is a wide range of possibilities encompassed by the word relationship. As we mature and learn more about ourselves and develop greater awareness, we come to understand that even within a single relationship, there are levels, beautifully explained by Stephen Sloane in his brilliant essay "Spirit of Harmony," which appeared in Equus magazine in July 1995. The first level is what Sloane calls the "mechanical" or technical level of relationship. At this level, the relationship between man and dog is a matter of mechanics: You apply the stimulus, the dog responds. The relative simplicity of this level is best exemplified by Gary Larson's cartoon showing two amoebas, one complaining to the other, "It's always the same old thing-stimulus, response, stimulus, response." Though simplistic when placed in the context of a relationship, this mechanical approach can be used to train an animal to perform quite complex tasks. Problems are solved mechanically, often through the use offeree. If the dog won't do x, y or z, you make him. The dog won't sit? Push down on his rear and pull up on his collar until he does sit. The puppy bucks and pulls when the collar and leash are put on? Tie him to a doorknob and let him fight it out there. Recipes are not only possible but quite popular at this level. To be sure, if the recipe is a good one, a large percentage of dogs will respond nicely, especially when such a recipe is applied by an expert hand. With a high degree of skill and a thorough understanding of learning principles, a trainer may never move past this purely technical level yet still be very successful (assuming that success is measured solely by the animal responding in the desired way). It is also possible to be technically proficient and yet fail at a deep, soulful level. Notable in its absence at this level is a sense of partnership-the animal is little more than a living, breathing machine, though he may be taken care of diligently. Technical proficiency is a dispassionate thing, though it may be admired for what it is-competent workmanship. My view of relationships is that they are living works of art. And so when I consider the purely mechanical as the basis for a relationship, what rings true are the same four words considered the most damning commentary on any work of art: "It has no heart." The leap from the mechanical level to the next level, what Sloane calls the "motivational" or psychological level, is a fairly easy one, requiring only that you become curious about why an animal will or will not do something. Motivation is defined as "the psychological feature that arouses an organism to action." In trying to understand what motivates the dog, you begin to learn more about him. At the mechanical level, the question is how to make the dog do what you want him to do. At the motivational level of relationship, you are trying to figure out how you can make the dog want to do what you want him to do. The trick is to discover in what way (or ways) your dog is motivated to act as you'd like him to. There are many ways to motivate a dog: food rewards, toys, play, freedom, praise, attention. That sounds good and pleasant, doesn't it? When we think of motivational, we often make this word synonymous in our minds with a pleasant, happy approach. But there are other, darker ways to motivate. Waving cash in someone's face may be a good way to motivate them (if cash is a meaningful reward for them); waving a gun in their face is also motivational. A dog may be motivated pleasurably or through pain, fear and deprivation. Pain is delivered in any number of ways: collar "corrections," remote-control shock collars and, of course, the human hand. Fear is another great motivator, and it is possible to make a dog more afraid of one thing than another. For example, a dog may break his sit stay because he's afraid of being left by his owner. If the owner dashes back, shouting imprecations, and shakes the dog to "correct" him, the dog can quickly learn to be more afraid of the consequences of getting up than of being left behind. Deprivation of food, social interaction and even water are also used in dog training. Though depriving a dog of water is rare, social deprivation is not. A hungry, thirsty or lonely dog is "highly motivated" to please the person who controls these critical resources. Take great care to find out what the motivation actually is when someone claims to be a motivational trainer, and be sure to carefully consider just how your dog is being motivated in any situation. It is possible to progress no further than the motivational phase and have a good relationship with a dog, especially if there are no real conflicts and the level of achievement is agreeable to the trainer. If through motivation you can get where you want to go, why go any further? Understanding how to motivate a dog (through pleasant or unpleasant means) can result in successful training, though not always in a great relationship. If the motivation used is largely positive (i.e., reward-based training), it is also possible to be quite humane. Many training problems can be resolved when the training shifts to a purely motivational level. But not all problems will yield to a romping game of ball or a fistful of tasty treats. While Wendy was able to improve much of Chance's performance in training when she incorporated food rewards, his bolting behavior could not be altered by this approach. And as Chance proved, new problems may arise from the training technique itself if pain, fear, and/or deprivation are used as motivation. While the motivational level offered Wendy some answers, there were other questions that could not be satisfied because the answers did not lie in technique but in the dynamics of two hearts in relationship. Like Wendy, many dog lovers go just this far and, failing to find the answers they long for, assume that there is nowhere else to go. As Wendy nearly did, many resign themselves to making the best of what they have been able to achieve. The motivational or psychological level is where I got stuck as a trainer for so many years. It was easy enough to do, especially when the majority of dogs I worked with were successful and happy in their training. Two things kept me searching for something more. The first was that I knew something more was possible. There was no denying the beauty and joy of what I experienced with my animals. Though I did not yet know of Sloane's essay on levels of relationship, what I was experiencing in those lovely moments was the third level, and I wanted more of that experience. The other driving force of my search for more (that indefinable thing!) were the dogs that I could not reach and the dogs who only partially succeeded. While it would have been easy to blame the dogs or their owners for the failures or incomplete successes, it would not have been honest or fair. Nor would I have been motivated to continue my search. The sense that I could help these dogs if only I knew another way nagged at my heart, and it still does. If I could go back in time and bring with me what I have learned, I would go to these dogs and apologize for what I did not know, and ask for a chance to try again. What I found that cold morning in Maryland as I watched a woman and a horse was what I wanted: the dance. The true dance of relationship is possible only at the third level, what Sloane terms the "spiritual" level. Here, the focus shifts from how to make the dog do something or how to make the dog want to do something, and the question becomes, "How do we accomplish this together?" Such a simple question, but to even ask it, we have to make a profound shift within ourselves. Remember the trainer's advice to me? "Learn to train without ego." Moving to this third level, the spiritual level, requires that we are willing to set aside our egos and let the relationship between us and the animal take center stage. The focus is no longer solely on the dog, but on the partnership between us, and on us as partners in this dance. At times, I think of this level as the Snow White phase, because once you reach it, you spend a lot of time saying, "Mirror, mirror, on the wall. . . This level requires a willingness to look honestly at ourselves and at our motivations comand to look again and again. It is not always a pretty picture we see before us. Staring at the uglier wrinkles in your soul, you'll realize that some hard work with fre
sh crayons is called for, because the map of the world that you've lived by is going to need to be redrawn. (i'll concede that perhaps your map needs only minor revisions; mine has needed entire new editions on a regular basis.) It is not easy work, but this is where the dance truly begins. I do not know if it's possible to live completely at this level, but I hope so. I keep trying, mirror and crayons at the ready. While the three levels seem clearly defined on paper, in practice there are rarely such crisp distinctions; many of us drift between all three, though we will spend a majority of our time operating at one level or another. For many readers, there will be a shock of joyful, excited recognition when reading about the third level-"I've been there!" It is the magic of connection that we experience with animals, the moments that we cannot explain or perhaps even understand, moments that only another animal person can comprehend with a knowing nod, moments that keep us coming back for more. But we may not understand that these elusive moments of connection can be more than just fleeting experience, ephemeral and unpredictable as a rainbow. The third level is not a moment but a philosophy, a way of life, an awareness of what we can create every day, in ways large and small. We can, if we direct ourselves to follow the less-traveled trail, find our way more often to this most blessed place of deep connection where the dance of two is possible.

  The dance is not a result of specific techniques. It springs from a life lived according to the philosophy crafted by your heart, a philosophy that informs all you do. This cannot be achieved by bringing your awareness and effort only to those moments you call "training." The dog is a dog, twenty-four hours a day. His world is shaped by what you say and do, not just in training sessions but in every waking moment he is with you. Incapable of dishonesty in his own communications, a master of observation, the dog not only notices what you do, but he believes what you do to be an accurate reflection of the relationship between you. The relationship-the pivotal point on which all else turns-is built (or undermined) in every interaction. There are those who recoil from this, saying "That's too much work!" In so saying, they admit they have no desire to put so much effort and time into a relationship with a "mere" dog. But for those who have the desire, those who would dance with a dog as their partner, this reality is a welcome opportunity to use every moment with awareness and purpose. "Education is an admirable thing, but it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught," Oscar Wilde wrote.

  No one can teach you how to dance with a dog. There are no recipes or shortcuts, no magic knotted leashes that ease the way. What this book offers are the cautionary tales of common failings and misunderstandings between man and dog. They are offered so that you need not make the same mistakes, or having already made them, you may reassure yourself that many other travelers on this road have also stumbled. The philosophy offered here is mine, but it points the way to a very real place where a dog will meet you gladly. Perhaps you can use this book to help you find your way to dance, joyfully and with heart.

  To know someone here or there with whom you can feel there is understanding in spite of distances or thoughts unexpressed that can make of this earth a garden. Goethe

  when we enter into a relationship with A dog or any other being, we are seeking a connection or, perhaps more accurately, what we feel as a result of this connection: comfort, love, acceptance, peace, joy. What we are seeking and striving for is a quality of connection that is-hopefully-a mutually pleasurable state, a dance of two spirits moving in agreement. Though we may be unable to articulate precisely what we seek, we recognize it when it happens. Simply stated, it feels good when it is right, and it does not feel good when things are wrong. And when it is right, it's delightfully, incredibly, inexpressibly right. And when it's wrong, it can be terribly, unbearably wrong. What drives us crazy at times is that even when the connection is powerful and good, we may not know just how that moment was achieved or what magical ingredients helped to create it or, sadly, why it just as mysteriously dissolves into the mundane or routine. Because this kind of profound connection is elusive (whether we seek it with other people or with animals), we may not understand that it is not a goal or "thing" but rather a process, and a dynamic one at that. Despite the messages from advertisers that assure us that with their product (their car, soap, beer, dog food, jeans) we will be able to have the fulfilling relationships we seek, the truth is there is no particular formula by which a powerful connection may be summoned or created. In our restless searching through books and videos and seminars, we are asking for the recipe that can help us create what we know exists. Such a relationship between us and our animals is possible, though not necessarily easy, certainly not automatic. We've tasted it, or we've seen it or perhaps we've even just read about it-and we want more. We want a road map to There, because we've been there or we know others who have, and we know it's where we want to go. None of us deliberately sets out to create a relationship filled with conflict, frustration or disappointment. But the deep connection we seek may be missing, especially if we mistake the technicalities of dog behavior, training theories and techniques for a relationship. To find what we are seeking, we need to begin at the beginning, examining the foundation on which the entire relationship will turn: the quality of the connection itself.

  Rather mechanical in nature, dog training has long been devoid of words like quality. Open most dog books and you'll not find this word in the index. This may be due in part because in using a word like quality in the context of the dogs to human relationship, we step out into murky waters. If we ask "What is quality?" we are now in deep waters indeed. Philosophers have struggled to answer this for literally thousands of years, and the jury is still out on any definitive answer because like most things that deeply matter and powerfully inform our lives, quality will not yield to a simple definition. In Zen and the An of Motorcycle Maintenance, Robert Pirsig addresses the question of quality itself, a tricky concept that proves difficult to unravel and define though he tackles it from endless angles and theoretical stances. One of my favorite ideas from Pirsig's book is this: "Quality is not a thing. It is an event." In other words, quality is something that happens, the result of a coming together. Pirsig poses the thought that while a sunset may be beautiful, that beauty is an event of quality within the beholder. Though splendid, the colors of the sunset are not what move us. If that were true, then each time the sun set, all of us would be moved as we are but infrequently. It is what we bring to the observation of that sunset that moves us as it does. I cannot remember with precision too many sunsets, though I have seen countless ones in my lifetime. I can remember only vaguely the pleasure of flooding my mind with such unexpected colors combined in a way unique to that time and place. I can more clearly remember one particular sun setting over the distant trees, the night breeze chilling me as it dried the sweat raised in digging my dog's grave. That sunset moved me as the one before it or after it could not. On that evening, the setting of the day was more than just a routine moment that signaled mundane shifts such as the need to feed the horses or begin the evening meal. And it was more than my casual attention that was brought to the brilliant but brief display that all too soon disappeared, leaving only the darkness. Each time we interact with a dog or any other being, we have an opportunity to create an event of quality, or not. Our relationships with our dogs are dynamic, responsive to and informed by every choice we make. Each of our actions, whether intentional or inadvertent, will move us in only a few possible directions-away from or toward greater intensity of connection, or we do not move at all and remain still. If quality is indeed an event, then in every moment, we have a choice. Relationships are not mechanical processes, though training itself is very often considered to be. Bob Bailey, a professional animal trainer who has used scientifically established principles of training to train over 140 different species, states it plainly, "Training is a mechanical skill." The problem arises when we mistake the skill of training for the relationship itself. It is possible to have e
xtremely good technical training skills and very little sense of relationship; conversely, as millions of dog owners demonstrate daily, it is also possible to have little or no technical training skill and still have a profoundly moving relationship with an animal. Though training can be mechanical, I think it is unfortunate at best that many trainers try to reduce it to that level. We are not mixing chemicals that will react predictably; we are dealing with the intersection of two live, unique beings. We are dealing with something that is dynamic. To view training as purely mechanical is to say that the results are predictable, like gravity pulling a thrown stone to earth. But as any experienced animal person will tell you, animals are not entirely predictable, no more than we are. If we view our dogs as organisms that will respond in certain ways provided we apply the appropriate and timely stimuli, we are stuck in a very mechanical perspective that does not allow for were because it cannot explain) the mysterious and wonderful possibilities of a deep connection. Though we enjoy the things that Newtonian physics makes possible-our automobiles, planes, bridges, homes-we must turn elsewhere to understand nonthings or processes, such as our own bodies and relationships. Whether we are trying to understand the rich interwoven biological and ecological systems that make up the planet, or to unravel the mysteries of the bodystmind connection or move into deeper levels of understanding in our relationships with others, the rigid, mechanistic views based on Newtonian physics fail us. Our world is not one of simple cause and effect, but one of dynamic interactions, right down to the cells within our bodies. As Candace Pert points out in her book Mofecwfes of Emotion, our thoughts create definable physiological shifts in our bodies; the biochemistry of the cells help to inform the shape of our thoughts. It is a seamless integration of information, so that it is impossible to say where the beginning or end of it all may lie. A relationship is also-at its core-a seamless integration of information. By the very act of choosing to be in a relationship-even casually-with another being, we open ourselves to the dynamic process of both putting forth and receiving information. To fully embrace the idea that quality is a dynamic event that we can choose to create is both a heavy burden of responsibility and one of the greatest of all freedoms. We can push away this responsibility with a mental shrug, saying, "Well, that's the way it is" as if life and our interactions with others are some kind of emotional weather over which we have no control or influence. Even worse, we may throw up our hands and, relative to another's behavior, say, "That's just the way they are!" as if we have no influence on the behavior of those around us. Both responses are as common in the dogsthuman relationship as in our human interactions. Either way, we are not accepting the responsibility for creating our world and are fooling ourselves that we can somehow stand apart from our life and our relationships with others. Though dog training often focuses on the dog's behavior, it is almost impossible to separate the dog from the dogsthuman relationship, which in turn means that we, as part of the relationship, have responsibilities and choices to make about our own behavior. The event of quality is one that we can actively choose, every day, each time we are with our dogs. sunsets in Disneyland Pirsig's second book, LilaccAn Inquiry into Morals, takes the concept of quality a little further, defining two basic types of quality: static and dynamic. Static quality is predictable, replicable and most often involves people and things, not people and other living beings. Disneyland is an example of static quality. Deliberately set in climates that offer a high percentage of good weather, Disney's attractions are carefully controlled to make sure that to the highest degree possible, all visitors have the same experience, at least in terms of what is presented; no one can control the internal response of any visitor. I disliked Disneyland very much but could not articulate why I found it so flat, almost sterile. Years later, when I read Pirsig's Lila, I understood that what I objected to was precisely the static quality of the experience. There is a tremendous attraction for many people in such static or fixed-quality experiences, as evidenced by the success of Disney and other venues, because there is value in static quality. You would have a hard time convincing the average person to pay an admittance fee to a park where they might or might not see Mickey Mouse, where there might or might not be a parade on Main Street, where rides might or might not be open. It is the static quality of the offered experience that is the attraction. People feel safe when they know what to expect, when they can reasonably predict the experience. Static quality can be enjoyable, it can please us and make us feel good, but it has its limits. Rarely does it quicken our souls. We often accept the merely static because it requires less energy from us, requires less of us. Within the context of a relationship, an expectation or desire for static, predictable experiences can deaden us to the complex beauty of another being; at worst, such expectations are truly destructive since they do not honor or enhance the connection. For some, a dog is not a living, breathing being with needs and expectations, but something they can "h" when they want to interact with a dog. Like any living thing, dogs do not loan themselves to moments of static quality. They are not appliances or furnishings or instruments that await your need of them. A fine stereo system can provide us with superb-quality music anytime we push a button; you cannot turn a dog on or off like a radio depending on your desire at the moment, ignoring it the rest of the time. But God knows, people try. Every dog trainer in the world can relate stories of clients who want a dog and are seeking advice as to what kind of dog they should consider. Questioned, the client reports in all sincerity that they want a dog who would happily stay home alone for eight to ten or more hours a day, never destroy anything, perfectly control his bladder and bowels, be delighted to see them and need little more than a walk around the block before settling down to keep them company. They ask, "What kind of dog should I get88The correct answer is "A stuffed one." For a while, the AKC had a TV commercial that posed a similar situation and answer. There might be a market, I suppose, for a canine version of escort services. You could, for instance, pick up the phone and ask for a beautiful blonde (golden Retriever] to accompany you to a picnic in the park. Need a four-footed playmate for the kids one afternoon? Request Nanny the Newfoundland, who doubles as a lifeguard. Feeling vulnerable while your spouse is away on a trip? Rent Gunther the Guard Dog-he's delivered, of course, only for the few hours that you actually need his services. Like any professional escort, these dogs would be impeccably groomed, well mannered and pleasant, guaranteed to provide "a quality dogsthuman interaction." Once done with your need for a dog, you could return him to the Dogs on Demand office and go about your day. All the delight of a dog's companionship but none of the responsibility. But also none of the soulful moments of dynamic authenticity. This sterile, static approach to dogs is not as far-fetched as it seems. In her book The Animal Attraction, Dr. Jonica Newby reports that in Tokyo, dogs can be rented by the hour; outside of Beijing, dog lovers unable to keep dogs can visit a special "dog farm." In both cases, it is more the pressures of urban life and society that make dog keeping an extraordinary luxury unavailable to many, not a shallow desire to avoid the complexities of a life shared with dogs.