by Randy Grim
As with the fearfully aggressive dog, the time for his social debut is determined by how well he learns to relax on command. If every single time you ask him to “sit,” he obeys and looks up at you with the gooey expression of a stuffed panda, then you’re ready for Grim’s Guide to Proper Fork Use, below. If, however, there is any hesitancy on his part—if he whines, or fidgets, or averts his eyes toward the other dogs, for instance—then he’s not ready and must continue his lessons. Desensitizing is the magic key here.
At this point, your question to me is probably, “Won’t my dog get fat with all these hot dogs?” and my response is, “Yeah. So?” Would you rather have a fat, happy dog or a lean, mean killing machine? And besides, once you get through this chapter, you’ll be able to take him jogging through the park to lose the weight without getting the usual dirty looks from parents of “normal” dogs.
This coincidentally leads me into the next section ...
Grim’s Guide to Proper Fork Use
Now that Cujo can go to the park and not act like a total redneck, he’s ready for the final phase of counterconditioning, which, for him will be easy, because he won’t actually have to do anything.
You, however, will. Don’t worry, though, as there are only two steps.
Step One: Tell yourself that Cujo will never be able to run loose with other dogs, and once you’re convinced, move on to Step Two.
Step Two: Reward yourself with a hot dog.
“But ... ”
But nothing. Cujo can now walk through the park with grace and civility, and for a dog who still probably wants to attack other dogs, that’s a goal you should be proud he’s reached.
“But ... ”
Get over it. As far as I’m concerned, the most proper way to use a fork is to scare away people with aggressive dogs who insist on letting them loose in dog parks. Any size fork will do. Believe me (because, unfortunately, I know), when someone with a crazy look in their eyes runs toward you screaming, “GO AWAY” while waving a fork, it doesn’t matter whether it’s made for salad or made for steak, you go away.
Look at it from their point of view. Their dog Dopey lives for the moment every day when the leash comes out and they head for the dog park. It gives Dopey’s parents so much pleasure to give him so much pleasure that the three of them can barely contain themselves. As they approach the park, Dopey gets more and more excited, and when he finally sees his friends romping together across the grass, he all but loses his mind with joy. For his parents, there’s nothing quite like bending down, unhooking the leash, and watching Dopey tear across the field toward his buddies, who in turn go nuts with happiness when they see him coming, because for that one little moment of every single day, all seems right in their worlds.
Then you and Cujo arrive.
Have you not noticed that everyone leaves when you and your mean dog arrive?
I know how much you love this dog and want him to be “normal.” If he could just run and play with the others, you’re sure he’d learn to adjust. I know how many books you’ve read and programs you’ve watched and Web sites you’ve scanned, and how many times you’ve tried, really tried to follow the advice, just to watch him fail again and again. After a while, you even get superstitious about it and wonder whether it has something to do with the food you’re feeding him or the feng shui-ness of your house or some weird trajectory of an undiscovered comet zooming through the House of Pluto. Is there lead in his toys? Is his collar too tight? Does it have anything to do with his vaccinations?
I know your eventual conclusion like I know the palm of my own hand because, after you’ve disinfected his belongings, exorcised your home, hired a dog-behavior coach, put him on a treadmill, and purchased all-natural, made-in-America, freerange, gourmet food, you’ve decided, through a process of elimination, that it must have something to do with you. You are the problem somehow.
Again: Get over it.
Unless you’re encouraging him to attack other dogs, it’s not your fault, and no matter how polite he becomes as a result of hot-dog counterconditioning, no matter how sorry you feel for him, no matter how much you want him to have friends and be part of the gang, if a dog is aggressive toward other dogs—for whatever reason, and even if it’s only once in a while—he cannot be trusted around other dogs.
One of the most frustrating parts of my work comes when I get calls or e-mails from people like Witless Wally who insist that their dogs are, deep down, just like the dogs in the dog park and that if he could only find the solution that keeps eluding him, everything would turn out okay in the end. But it won’t, and it’s one of the hardest realities for people to accept.
It might be easier, though, if you look at it this way: THEY DON’T WANT YOU IN THE DOG PARK.
If it helps, think of your dog as “haughty” rather than aggressive—so far superior to Dopey and the like that playing with them doesn’t interest him in the least. The only reason he attacks them is because they’re too dumb to understand.
Once you accept your dog for who he is, whatever mental gymnastics it takes, it’s simply a matter of adjusting a few things in your life, and my job is done. First, be realistic about your dog and who he is, and love him like your mom is supposed to love you. If you countercondition him with hot dogs as explained earlier and can walk him down the street or through the park or into the vet’s office without any scenes, then you’ve accomplished more than 95 percent of parents with aggressive dogs ever accomplish.
Second, learn and understand what triggers his aggression, and reject those triggers like handshakes during flu season. Dr. Gupta calls this “avoidance,” and assures me it’s okay as long as it doesn’t involve taxes, oil changes, or relatives. So if dogs in the dog park set him off, you can avoid the dog park and not have your therapist accuse you of having an avoidant/ borderline-mixed-personality disorder.
Third, if you live in a home with more than one dog, keep Cujo separated from the rest, especially when they eat, sleep, or run in the yard. Never leave them alone together, and don’t feel guilty about it, because would you rather feel guilty about fencing them off or about one doing serious damage to the other? You can try a basket muzzle, of course, if the dog can live with it, but you still have to separate them when they eat. I still separate my crew when feeding. I do not recommend, however, taking a muzzled dog to the dog park, because Cujo may still attack out of habit, and because Dopey will naturally fight to defend himself, Cujo will be the one who gets hurt.
Quick Fix-3
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dogs Who You-Know-What in the House
Phone message #1: Hey, Randy—This is John. Buster pisses on everything. Haven’t heard back from you. Call me ASAP.
Phone message #2: Randy, you didn’t tell us the dog we adopted from you isn’t house-trained. I’ve left a couple of messages already. Thanks, Joanne
Phone message #3: Hi Randy, I’ve been trying to call you, but you never seem to answer your phone. I’m having problems with Leah, who pees on the carpet every time I leave the house. Call me, Terri
To: Anyone who has a dog who you-know-whats in the house
From: Randy
Re: House-Training
I’m away for the next several years and won’t be checking my e-mail.
From: Randy
To: Jenn
Re: Dogs who you-know-what in the house
Jenn—If anyone calls the main number for me regarding a dog who isn’t housebroken, pretend bad connection and hang up.
Just between you and me, I hate the urine issue. I hate the way it smells, I hate the way it sounds coming out, I hate saying the word or any euphemism thereof. I’ve searched the thesaurus for alternatives to “urinate,” which I hate writing, and all I found were things like “pee,” “piss,” and “tinkle,” none of which I will say out loud unless I’m drunk at a bar and trying to find a bathroom. The only possible substitute was “see a man about a horse,” which makes no sense, but because this is the number-o
ne baddog issue, and because every other message on my e-mail or phone has something to do with it, and because I can’t get away with “Haven’t you heard? Yellow is the new black,” if your dog sees a man about a horse on your carpet, reach for the vinegar (see below), and take comfort in the fact that you aren’t alone.
My house smells like salad, or what my Mom describes as “pickled beets.” Between spraying lemon juice for barking, Tabasco for turd eating, and vinegar for the you-know-what, it’s like walking into an Eastern European delicatessen, because my house is the victim of every known assault by dogs who see men about horses, including puppyhood, insecurity, territory marking, and separation anxiety. The thought has even occurred to me while doing the pee dance and rushing for the bathroom that I might as well see a man about a horse on the carpet myself, because everyone else has.
Puppyhood
In the good old days before I founded Stray Rescue, back when my biggest responsibility in life was maintaining a cool house and hip wardrobe, a skinny female dog followed me home through the park one day, and while I tried to ignore her as she limped along behind me, it was like ignoring a skinny stray dog limping along behind me. Guilt incarnate. When I finally reached my door and turned around, she sat at the foot of the steps and stared up at me.
I lit a cigarette and stared back. “What?”
She cocked her head.
“What’s wrong?”
She cocked her head the other way.
“What do you want?”
She extended her front legs until her belly reached the ground. Then she laid her nose on her legs, rolled her eyes up toward me, and exhaled loudly as if exhausted from her trip and glad to be home. After considerable mental debate and three more cigarettes, I shrugged and invited her in. Why not?
Well, for one thing, she—Bonnie—was pregnant. She was as skeletal as a dinosaur on top, but from the sides, as bloated as the Goodyear blimp. It was like looking at Nicole Richie while pregnant.
For another, she delivered not one, not two, not five, but thirteen—that’s THIRTEEN, as in a baker’s dozen—puppies.
For yet another, Bonnie developed mastitis, an infection in her boobies, so I became a surrogate mother dog and bottlefed the thirteen puppies ’round the clock for six weeks. In my sleep-deprived state, I often wondered if this would be my fate if I went to hell.
And then, as the puppies grew, so grew their bladders—and my budget for air fresheners. You can read all the nightmarish details in The Man Who Talks to Dogs, but for purposes of this book, imagine the conversation that took place between a sleep-deprived, freaked-out gay guy with thirteen little leaking monsters to take care of and his totally unaccommodating veterinarian.
“Why can’t you just take them, Doc?”
“I sympathize with you, Randy, but you’re simply going to have to house-train the puppies while you find them homes. You should never have bred her in the first place.”
“How dare you call me a breeder ... and I have to house-train all of them?”
“First thing in the morning, every morning, take them outside ...”
“But—”
“... and when they urinate, praise them—”
“But—”
“... then, after they eat, wait half an hour and take them out again.”
“But—”
“It’s a matter of consistency.”
If you are anything like me, the word consistency conjures up things like oil changes, sit-ups, and flossing, but nevertheless, you must face this ugly word when you get a new puppy. And if for some reason you have thirteen of them, it becomes, quite quickly, a profession. So I have no sympathy for those of you with just one.
The first thing you must do is set up a schedule and stick to it, and remember this: A puppy has no muscle control until she’s about sixteen weeks old, so until then, subscribe to the New York Times daily and put it on the floor near the puppy. Seeing your puppy poop on politicians’ faces will, at worst, brighten your day.
After that, a puppy must pee every hour that she is old in months, so if she’s three months old, she can only hold it for three hours. I started house-training Bonnie’s puppies when they were two months old, which meant that every two hours I had to take thirteen fat little balls of energy outside en masse. Only it didn’t work out so well, because as soon as I let them out of their pen in the basement, they scattered like bowling balls in every direction, and I spent half the day retrieving them and then cleaning up the messes they accomplished while I was retrieving someone else.
So instead, I descended the basement stairs thirteen times, picking up a puppy thirteen times, ascending the stairs thirteen times, and taking a puppy outside thirteen times—and when they did their business, singing praises thirteen times. I figured out that during that time, I said “HALLELUJAH!” 4,680 times, which must earn me some sort of high status in the afterlife, i.e., every time a puppy did his thing Randy earned his wings.
But after a while, I realized they were so attached to me that they’d follow me wherever I went, like ducklings follow a mother duck. I was so delirious from lack of sleep that it seemed to make sense for me to quack and flap, and they indeed learned that this was the signal for them to go outside.
I’m a big believer in crate training. (See chapter 14.) Dogs usually won’t see a man about a horse in the space they sleep and eat in, and while puppies don’t get it at first, eventually they’ll come around. Just make sure the crate isn’t too big, because the puppy will do her stuff in a distant corner and not be bothered. So keep your puppy in a crate at night, and first thing every morning—before you brew your coffee, have a cigarette, or see a man about a horse yourself—take the puppy out of the crate and to the backyard. Place your New York Times on the ground in the backyard, so the puppy understands that this is where to go. As soon as she does her thing, praise and pet her, so she associates doing the deed outside with pleasure.
Then, bring her inside and for about half an hour or so, let her play at will. Watch her, though, because as soon as she squats anywhere in the house, you have to screech and jump up and down (presumably still in your bathrobe and without caffeine in your bloodstream) so she conversely associates doing the deed inside with something rather hideous. (P.S. Most of my dogs have a fear of me in my bathrobe. Will tackle that issue in another book.) Between the screeches and the deed itself, make sure to brew your coffee because the work has just begun and you need to be awake.
After thirty to sixty minutes, put her back in her crate where you give her breakfast. When she’s done eating, take her back outside and wait for her to do a number-two, which invariably happens about half an hour after she eats. Praise her, pet her, and bring her back in, then repeat the whole process over and over for the rest of the day. Be sure to stock up on staples that will help you deal with the stress of house-training your puppy (e.g., wine, chocolate, nicotine, and/or vodka) because here, in short, is your schedule:
Take her out first thing in the morning.
Playtime.
Outside.
Breakfast in crate.
Have a Mimosa.
Outside.
Playtime.
Have a cigarette even if you don’t smoke. Trust me on this one.
Outside.
Lunch in crate.
Have a Bloody Mary.
Outside.
Playtime.
Outside.
Eat an entire box of chocolate truffles.
Dinner in crate.
Take Valium. Call neighbor or pharmacist for supply. Tell them it’s an emergency.
In other words, your life revolves around the little beast for about a month, after which time she should let you know when she needs to go out. Don’t expect her to come up to you and say, “I need to see a man about a horse.” Watch for signs: whining, circling, and sniffing, or what I call “the look.” My Hannah, a mixed-breed street dog, is queen of “the look.” She sits up and stares very intensely at nothing, her brow
wrinkles up, and I know it’s time for me to open the door.
If you work and can’t watch the puppy closely, then you probably shouldn’t have her in the first place, but since you do, put her in a crate when you leave and have someone—a dog walker, for example, or the neighbor who loaned you the valium—let her out at least once every couple of hours. It will take much longer for her to learn the rules this way, however, so be prepared.
As for Bonnie’s thirteen puppies ... the story ends happily. I found every one of them a good home. When I approached a potential adopter—in my bathrobe with a cigarette dangling from my mouth, a box of chocolates under one arm, a bottle of Visine under the other arm, a fifth of vodka in one hand, and a puppy in the other—and asked for a light, they usually grabbed the puppy in horror and ran.
To this day, people still ask me why I didn’t just ignore Bonnie when she followed me home from the park; or why, if I was so inclined to keep her, I didn’t take her to the pound when I found out she was pregnant; or why, once the puppies were born and Bonnie developed mastitis, I didn’t drop them off on the doorstop of my greatest enemy.
I have no grand answer. It wasn’t Bonnie’s fault someone abandoned her in the park, any more than it was the puppies’ fault they were born in the first place—and besides, taking care of those thirteen puppies monopolized every waking thought, which left no room for self-centeredness, self-pity, or self-loathing, all of which, when allowed free reign, send selfconfidence and self-fulfillment running for cover. It was good for me. It also led to the eventual creation of Stray Rescue. It changed my life.
During the chaos, though, people accused me of having a mental breakdown, as if I was an alcoholic in need of intervention, because I wouldn’t take Bonnie or her puppies to the pound “like any normal person would.” But the truth is, “any normal person” would have heard the same thing I heard when Bonnie limped behind me through the park to my front door—that inner nagging voice, which interpreted her look: Please, don’t leave me here. And they would have ignored it.
