Pulling on lead is, for me, a fundamental issue that both reflects on and affects the dogs to human relationship on many levels. Looked at within the context of the overall relationship, pulling on lead reveals disturbances in the quality of attention given and received at both ends of the lead and says something about the degree of togetherness at work between dog and handler. I do not know anyone who enjoys being pulled around by a dog. While dogs do pull, I doubt that they find the experience enjoyable-it's hard to believe that being gagged and choked is enjoyable. But lacking our perspective and our ability to change the situation, they may believe it is an inescapable part of being on leash, especially since we most obligingly play our part. It takes two to tango, and it takes two to pull. A frustrated student once told me that her dog always pulled, no matter what. Unable to resist such an opening, I sweetly asked, "Always? No matter what?" She nodded vigorously. "No matter what! It drives me crazy." When I asked if the dog pulled even when he was off leash and running around in her yard, she looked at me with disgust. "Of course he doesn't pull then." So then I persisted, he only pulls when he's on lead. What if you drop the lead? Does he still pull? Now a bit annoyed by this line of questioning, she answered sharply, "Of course not. I have to be holding the leash." She stopped as the realization hit her that in order for her dog to pull, he had to have something or someone to pull against. It had never dawned on her that she might be contributing to the problem; she had viewed this solely as the dog's problem. Any of us would take a dim view of someone who was dragging their dog or a child down the street-it is an act that speaks to the person's insensitivity to or lack of respect for the dog or child they are towing. But we don't think twice about the dog whose person allows him to pull them down the street. We don't think about the lack of respect implicit in the act of pulling, or the lack of leadership that allows it. Simply put, we may move through life spending far too much time simply tied to our dogs by the length of our leash, not bound to them through an investment of our attention. At this most simple level of moving together, we reveal the courtesy and respect at work in the quiet unplanned moments of life. I am never as
interested in how two work together on a specific task as I am in how they are together in the in-between moments, when no focus or goal drives or shapes their behavior. Focus on a task-especially one that is enjoyable or so demanding that attention is literally consumed by the effort required-can conceal a great deal and give the false impression that all is well. Don't show me what your dog can do when you give him a command; just show me how you and he walk down the street together, and I'll know much more. When a high degree of quality exists, it is unmistakable. There is attentiveness that flows between the two partners, a mutuality and respect that is evident in everything they do. Simple gestures reveal a world and say more than we may realize about a relationship. And whether we do so consciously or not, we look at the quality of connection itself to evaluate the relationships we see around us. What I see in a dog and person walking together is a rough blueprint for the relationship, a brief overview of the quality of the connection between person and dog. I do not pretend or assume that these glimpses into how people and dogs walk together is indicative of the whole relationship. But long experience has taught me that this is a surprisingly reliable predictor for what else will be revealed as I learn more about the relationship. "How can you judge the connection between dog and person based on just that?" the reader protests. "All you are seeing is the dog when he's excited, going somewhere new, stimulated by the new setting or other dogs or the activity around him." And I would answer, "Yes, that is precisely what I am seeing, along with how the human in the equation deals with the dog in that situation, how the dog and person work together." A client, Margaret, arrives at the farm for a consultation with her fifteen-month-old German Shepherd, Luger. On the phone she has told me about their difficulties in working in a class situation, how her dog barks and lunges at other dogs, and how inconsistent he is in his obedience work despite his considerable intelligence and athletic ability. When she can get his attention, he's cooperative, but keeping his attention on her is difficult. She has high hopes for Luger, but she needs help dealing with these training problems.
I stand on the porch, watching as she opens the car door. Luger lunges for the opening, but Margaret is prepared for this. She deftly catches the dog by the collar and wrestles him back into the car, using her body to block his escape route while she puts on his leash. It appears that she's quite practiced in these maneuvers. The word "stay" drifts to me; though it is muffled the first few times, by the tenth time the volume has been turned up, and I'm pretty sure I've heard it correctly. At last she steps back, and a black-and-tan bullet shoots from the car, nose to the ground and moving fast. Dragged along behind him like unwanted baggage is Margaret, fighting to stay on her feet and control Luger at the same time. "He's awfully excited about being here!" she calls to me as Luger tows her along on his exploration of the front yard. Eventually, Luger is bored with the yard and, lacking anything better to do, turns his attention to Margaret, who leads him to the front steps where I have been sitting for the last few minutes. I mention to Margaret that he is an extremely handsome dog, and she beams at this compliment. I add that I can see that she does indeed have a problem getting his attention. At this moment, the big dog chooses this moment to return to the car, pulling his owner sideways so sharply that I have the impression of an owl turning its head to me as Margaret looks over her shoulder and asks, in all seriousness, "What makes you say that? You haven't even seen him work yet." Connection is not created through proximity (otherwise everyone on a crowded elevator would become fast friends), though we do use proximity as a substitute for connection, just as we substitute holding a child's hand or holding a dog's leash for actually paying attention to them. Truth be told, we often substitute a leash for attentiveness to our canine companions. Consequently, dogs also substitute a leash for attentiveness to us. In essence, we eliminate the need for any deep attentiveness on our part while also inadvertently teaching the dog that he need not really pay much attention to us-we're right there at the end of the lead. This does not seem to be a terribly bad situation. The dog is safely restrained, and both we and our dogs may move along in some semblance of togetherness. But in the seemingly harmless act of
tethering a dog to us and setting off for a walk "together" in this strained fashion, we have already begun to undermine the relationship itself. We have already chosen less quality for the connection between ourselves and our dogs. Ultimately, this choice may come to haunt us at a later time, in moments of far greater intensity and importance than simply walking together. Think of it like this: In allowing our dogs to pull us along, we are practicing, over and over and over, the quality of disconnection. We really have no right to be surprised when in other situations, when we really want or desperately need the dog to be fully connected and attentive to us, he's a bit out of practice. A healthy relationship maintains a fairly even degree of quality no matter what the circumstances. We'd all look strangely at someone who said that their husband was a very well-behaved man at home but just too excited out in public to act politely. We'd be skeptical of parents who assured us that while at the park they might appear careless and disconnected from their children, they were very attentive to their kids' needs at home. If there are noticeable variances in the quality of connection between you and your dog depending on the situation or circumstances, your relationship may not be as strong as it could be. Mutual attention-dog to handler, handler to dog-should serve as the first and most powerful connection in all situations. This takes time to create through training and a diligent practicing of attentiveness; a leash can serve as a safety net along the way to handle the bobbles that will inevitably occur, maybe even as a way to begin a conversation that requires no words. Perhaps our language needs to shift so that we no longer "walk the dog" but rather choose very deliberately, with loving attentiveness, to "walk with the dog." And don't forget-th
e dog has his own point of view. Interviewed, he might report that at home, you give him loving, careful attention but that out in the world, you are highly distracted, even excitable, and he finds taking you out in public a very tiring experience. Leaning close, his voice low so you don't overhear him, he might whisper to us, "And, gosh, you ought to see how she pulls on that leash!"
There are no shortcuts to any place worth going. Anonymous
Having to go back to the basics is not fun for anyone. What I have always hated in any game and in life was
the move that required me to go all the way back to the start and begin again. If I could stand on my head and sing "Ave Maria" backward in Cherokee as atonement, I'd rather do it than return to the beginning. Having to begin again, trying to fill in the gaps left on your first trip-well, it's not something anyone I know enjoys. Why, we ask, can't I just fix it from here? We point to how much we've already accomplished, how far we've already come, and wonder why we have to back up so very far. But the truth is, sometimes you have to back way up, right to the beginning, where the root of a problem lies, and as musicians say, "take it from the top." Understanding the dismay that accompanies receipt of the "Start Again" card, I had understood why Kate, who had driven a long, long way for a consultation, had looked at me with disbelief and a touch of irritation. She found it hard to believe that she was sitting in my kitchen and being told that one of the keys to her dog's behavior problems is that he pulls on leash. Kate had worked carefully to train her young dog, Angel, since early puppyhood, and he knew how to do many things. But his behavior was worrying her. She had brought him to me because of the intensity with which he focused on things he found interesting. Sometimes, the intensity escalated into near hysteria, with Angel leaping wildly at the end of the lead and screaming. On a few occasions, he had broken away from her to chase another dog; though he did not do any harm, the intensity of his pursuit alarmed Kate. Angel is a dog she raised and handpicked as her next performance dog. His behavior embarrasses and scares her; she is afraid that he is aggressive, out of control, unfit to perform as she hopes he might. Ready to learn new techniques, willing to implement even a long, involved training regimen, she was speechless when I told her that she first needed to step back and work on the very foundation of their connection. She had to master the simple act of truly being with him whenever they were together, and insisting-gently, quietly-that he also be with her. If she did not have his mind, I told her, she could only hope to control or at least restrain his body. But if she could stay connected to him and help him learn to stay connected
to her, anything was possible within the limits of their joint skills and abilities. "Oh, come on. I can't even count how many dogs I know that pull whenever they're excited. Lots of them are much worse about it than Angel, but they don't act like he does. I don't see how you can say that contributes to his behavior problems." Kate was frowning slightly, her jaw set in disagreement. Brilliant, highly responsive, Angel is like many dogs I have worked with-dogs reactive to even minute changes in the world around them, desirable qualities in a working dog. But his keen intelligence is a double-edged sword: almost instantly responsive to a handler's gesture or command, but equally responsive to other stimuli in his environment, including the ones Kate might wish he would ignore. Such dogs are like Mazeratis, beautiful and fast, but they need to be driven with care and precision. With maturity, experience and training, such dogs learn to be selectively responsive, turning their attention to appropriate matters, but Angel was young. He was also impulsive, emotional, volatile. For him, the intense excitement of a training class, Kate's fearful apprehension that he might attack another dog and his own considerable intelligence were proving to be a difficult combination. Allowing him to pull excitedly on the lead had some unwanted effects: First, Angel's arousal level escalated. Kate simply hung on for the ride, excusing the pulling behavior as something that just happened when her dog was excited. With each step, Angel's excitement built, so that by the time they actually reached the class or practice grounds or even a nearby park where dogs might be playing, he was already aroused to a high degree. By acting as little more than his anchor, Kate had also abandoned any position of leadership, an abdication that did not go unnoticed by the dog. They would arrive at their destination with Angel's heart rate racing and his adrenaline level already high. From a purely physiological perspective, he was well primed to respond to the stimuli of other dogs running. He would stand watching, his excitement growing with each minute, and would soon forget that Kate was even with him. When at last he reached critical mass, he exploded in a frenzy of barking, yelping and leaping, a display that many students in the class
interpreted as aggressive behavior. Unable to connect with his mind, Kate had no option left but to drag his body away, frustrated by his behavior, embarrassed and disappointed. Pulling on lead is the spark that starts the embers glowing; everything else that happens is fuel poured on that tiny fire until it is blazing out of control. I could see the disbelief in Kate's face as I told her that it is here, in the quality of connection, that problems begin or are dealt with, though we will employ a variety of techniques to accomplish this. But first, helping Angel would require a shift in her understanding at a deep, almost philosophical level, and it would require a commitment to being with him and insisting, gently but relentlessly, that he be with her. In even the tiniest steps, she needed to create the quality of connection she wants. There is no way to leapfrog the "unimportant" moments and reserve your full attention for only the "important" times, no more than a builder can create a beautiful house without a solid foundation. In countless ways, some that will seem insignificant at the time, she needed to build the relationship. Kate was not convinced, but she was polite and agreed (though without conviction) to think about this and give it a try. I could see that talk was getting me nowhere, and I silently asked Angel to help me show Kate what I meant. Putting on his leash, we went outside for a walk. Accustomed to pulling as he pleased, Angel was surprised when I began to insist that he not pull. Since it takes two to pull (ever see a dog pulling off leash?), I didn't give him anything to pull against. Each time the leash grew taut, I gave a gentle tug and then released all tension. At first, he paid no attention to me. This was not unreasonable-we had, after all, just met. Though politely friendly, the dog had no reason to believe that I was of any great interest or concern. To expect him to respond to any direction from me would have been as arrogant as my shaking hands with someone I just met and then giving her orders on how to behave or act. We had no relationship. How then could I find a way to connect with this dog? I needed a way to become someone worth working with, someone interesting and fun. Taking advantage of his love of movement, I called his name and raced away, never letting the leash go tight. I allowed him to just catch up to me before I spun away from him and ran the other way. As his intensity grew, I allowed him to "catch" me and offered praise and some delicious treats before we began again. He found this a delightful game and soon responded happily and quickly to my calling his name. Soon, I was hard-pressed to outmaneuver him-he kept a close eye on where I was and what I was doing, hopeful that I might start the game again. Now we had a connection, although a fragile one, and we resumed our walk. I was still insistent that he not pull, and when I felt as if I had lost him, I danced away, calling him, asking him to reconnect with me. It worked, but not in a smooth, unbroken way. In a series of advances and retreats, it took us nearly ten minutes to go a few hundred feet.
I decided that I'd take him toward the barn. Our cattle, chickens, pig, cats and horses provide excellent distractions for most dogs. In the absence of competition for the dog's attention, I can only teach so much. To teach a dog to stay connected with me even in the face of distractions requires distractions. Most of the animals who have been with me for a while seem to understand their role as teachers, and they modify their behavior in fascinating ways that I interpret as the assistance of colleagues. (although the majority of my animal
s have proven themselves excellent fellow teachers, I must confess that goats may be the animals voted as most likely to tease a student as teach them. One of my goats could be extraordinarily helpful in certain training situations, but at times, she also seemed unable to resist the opportunity to tweak a dog's mind. I once had a college professor a lot like that. . . . were As we walked, I was planning just where and how I'd introduce Angel to the various animals. The chickens offer a lot of movement but no interaction-they simply pay no attention to dogs unless directly chased, something Angel would have no opportunity to do. Since they can be counted on to move in their brisk scratch-and-peck way I can choose the appropriate distance and let the dog begin to learn how to think even in the presence of something as intriguing as a hen or rooster. After the chickens, I would have to decide whether it was a good time to meet the cows or go face-to-face with a pig. Have to play it by ear, I told myself. (charlotte, the pig, is an intense interaction, her sheer bulk and fearlessness a nice counterpoint for dogs who've begun to believe that they are the biggest, baddest thing on the block. One look at a pig towering more than five feet above them has put more than one dog into a new frame of mind. It's not possible to tell a dog that no pig on earth is actually that tall, no way to explain that Charlotte's standing on her hind legs and balancing on her stall door. But sometimes, I think even if I could pass that information along, I might choose not to and let the educational value of seeing the world's largest pig work its magic.) As we rounded the corner of the drive toward the barn, I realized that in my consideration of how best to use the various farm animals on Angel's behalf, I'd forgotten the turkeys. This, I realized with a silent groan, could be a problem. These turkeys are confident beasts. Endlessly interested in whatever is happening on the farm, it is sometimes difficult to accomplish anything without the "help" of the turkeys. Their active involvement is not always entirely welcome, and occasionally worrisome, like the day John was walking into the barn and a turkey carrying a screwdriver walked past him on the way out of the barn. (we're still wondering how the bird got the tool, if he knew how to use it and what he was planning to do.) Exposed since their arrival as day-old chicks to our dogs, they have no fear of dogs. If anything, our turkeys find dogs fascinating, and approach a new dog with interest and an evil glint in their eyes. A rudely inquiring dog nose receives a sharp peck from their strong beaks, and on more than one occasion, a gang of six or more turkeys have surrounded a dog like street toughs surrounding an old woman-with bad intent and a possible mugging in mind. And now, here they came to help me as I worked with Angel. I knew the turkeys would carefully size up the dog before approaching, keeping their distance unless they felt they could intimidate or safely ignore him. It was endlessly fascinating to me how quickly and accurately these birds assessed every dog they met. I knew the turkeys would keep themselves safe, but I was not sure what Angel would do. Keeping an eye on the turkeys and the dog, I reminded myself to stay soft and breathe and wait to see what the dog would do. Although relaxed, I was ready to deal with what might happen if I had misjudged the situation-I'd have no choice but to simply restrain the dog and steer him to a turkey-free zone where we could start again. It was quite a scene. Angel stood frozen in his tracks, a wide-eyed statue of a dog, as six turkeys strutted toward him, looking like poster children for some vaguely evil Thanksgiving festival. At that moment, the ten minutes spent insisting that Angel be with me as we walked paid off. I called his name; he turned toward me; and though still fascinated by the turkeys, he came with me as we moved away. While I was busy telling him what a great dog he was, the turkeys moved a little closer, so that when we turned back to them, I discovered to my dismay that the gap had been closed a bit. Though understandably interested in the birds, Angel was not bouncing around or barking. A casual observer who did not understand canine body language might even have assessed him as standing calmly and just watching. But in the stillness of his body (rigidity might be a better word) and the intense pricking of his ears and his fixed stare, I could readjust how excited the dog really was. He was internally primed to a high degree, a missile that has been switched on and armed but not yet fired. Now was when I needed to ask him to remain connected with me; waiting until he had exploded was far too late. I called his name, watching for the sign that every dog gives that he has heard you. There almost always is one-whether it's a slight turn of the head, an ear flicking back in your direction, a lightning-fast eye movement or a slight tail wag- and it is sometimes easily missed. But it's almost always there. When Angel showed no sign of being able to hear me, I knew that we were in the danger zone where our connection was broken, so that nothing I said or did would be of help or direction to him. In such situations, I feel it is critically important to be fair to the dog. I could easily have pulled Angel off his feet with one well-timed jerk of the leash-he was so deeply focused on the turkeys that nothing in his body would have prepared him for that. Just such techniques are employed every day by trainers intent on teaching the dog to pay attention to them no matter what. Some even add insult to injury by sweetly inquiring in a cheerful tone, "Oh, what happened? were you not paying attention?" after jerking the dog off his feet. But what would that really teach Angel except that I might without warning inflict pain on him? It might teach him that paying attention to me no matter what was a good idea since evidently I was psychotic and not to be trusted, a lesson that decidedly would not deepen our relationship. It certainly would not increase the dog's understanding that we were in this together, and that together, we would find a way to deal with whatever situations arose. Everything in the dog's behavior told me that he was truly unaware that I had asked for his attention; his focus was completely on the turkeys. To use force to shift his attention to me would have been grossly unfair. And it would have reflected a choice on my part to take the easy route and not follow the path that led to the quality of connection I wanted between myself and dog. i'm sorry-all circuits are busy, please try again In a laboratory experiment, a cat was wired with electrodes that helped researchers see when an audible signal was received by the brain. When a tone was played, the cat's brain responded with a blip. Tone, blip; tone, blip. Then researchers put a mouse just outside the cat's cage where the cat could see it but not reach it. They were curious to see how the brain processed the competing stimuli of mouse and tone. Their theory was that the brain would register the tone but that the cat would consciously disregard this stimulus in favor of the mouse. To their surprise, when the cat was completely focused on the mouse, the brain did not register the tone at all-it was as if the tone had ceased to exist within the cat's perception of his world. Why they found this surprising is a mystery to me-I have had innumerable experiences where I was so focused on a task or so deep in a book that I failed to hear a phone ring, a teakettle whistling or even the approach of another human being. But no one asked me. It is difficult-if not downright impossible-to communicate with someone who is not "with" you. Communication is one of the keystones of a relationship, but the prerequisite for communication is a state of connection. When we address another human being, and we can see that they appear engaged in something-be that the football game on TV or balancing the checkbook or getting the decorations on a cake just right-we have both the courtesy and common sense to repeat
Bones Would Rain from the Sky: Deepening Our Relationships with Dogs Page 8
