The Rottweiler Chronicles

The Constant Tourist

2011-10-18T13:54:00.008-04:00

There is a Buddhist principle that basically says: You are on the path you're supposed to be on.

My husband and I quote that to each other whenever one of the other of us is feeling unsure of our course, when the bumps in the road seem like craters, the hills feel too steep to climb, and the headwinds blow too strongly to make headway. We say it when we are worried that we should have turned left or right back at some previous juncture, or that maybe we've lost the path altogether and are just stumbling around through a desperate landscape getting nowhere and wasting time.

In times like these when there is so much at our fingertips, so many choices, so much access, and so much at stake to obscure our view, it's easy to feel lost. Gertrude Stein once famously said, "Everybody gets so much information all the time they lose their common sense." She said that around the turn of the nineteenth century. I wonder if she were alive at the turn of the twentieth, would she have tweeted it?

I have always worn a lot of different hats-- musician, beauty queen, funny girl in the back of the class, writer, editor, fantasy/sci-fi freak, girlfriend, wife, teacher, mother, animal behaviorist, vintage t-shirt collector, long-winded blogger, gardener, cook. Some hats I've tried on didn't suit at all like gardening and teaching school. Others I thought I'd always wear somehow slipped out of the rotation over time. I suppose the usage of the collection depends largely on the path. Wearing a tiara and plastic smile would be out of place at this point in my life-- being someone's girlfriend even more so. As the path changes, you must change with it or else succumb.

I've written a lot in this blog about the value of adaptability-- to be able to shift your focus from one thing to another and back again, to display dominance in one situation and submission in another, to be humble before an object in space, but also to respect the power and importance of the space around that object, to accept success as well as failure. It is our ability to adapt, both innate and practiced, that determines the quality and variety of our life experience whether we're human or canine. From Darwin on down, it is our ability to change that enables our survival and continuation on the journey.

My path is shifting. Ever the survivor-- the constant tourist--, I feel compelled to shift with it. Over the summer, Matt and I had a series of conversations on our long walks with Hunter at the beach. We talked about our careers, our goals, our plans. As we talked, it became clear to me that above all else, what defined me most was my crushing and all-consuming love for him, and of course the children we created together. The world could simply fall away, and so long as the three of them still stood, I would survive. It's a heady realization that I'm sure appalls many of you feminists, but it is what it is. In an uncharacteristically angst-free moment, I decided not to fight this unpopular truth, but instead just take a deep breath and let go-- let go of the messages, the criticism, the fear--, and steep myself in my passion. It was a hell of a summer.

I let go of everything I thought I should be, I used to be, I was expected to be. I didn't care any more. I just wanted him, and that was enough. But to my astonishment, letting go of the effort towards achievement and identity, I caught a glimpse of who I really am and what I could be. After 35 self-obsessed, introspective years, I managed to surprise myself. I needed the break to have that wonderful A-Ha moment, to see and feel the spark of a new idea. I guess Nirvana can really only be achieved when you're not striving for it.

I spent the late summer and early part of the fall rolling around in my own clarity of purpose, jealously keeping it to myself for my own pleasure, but now as the weather turns cold, the road is becoming more treacherous, its twists and turns tightening, undulations more violent, and so it's time to lighten the load. After 11 incredible years, I am retiring from dog training and animal behavior. I will honor my clients' existing contracts and hope to continue to be a resource for all of you-- dog trainer, emeritus if you will. ;)

It feels strange to remove this hat. I self-consciously wonder if I have hat-head. Oh well. I'm sure the winds of change will blow my hair free, and if not I have a wide and varied collection of hats from which to choose as well as a new one just dying to be broken in. After all, Buddha says:

A girl can never have too many shoes, too much jewelry, or too many hats!

Cheers,
Chris
muttstoorder@gmail.com

Twain's Prophecy

2011-09-06T21:43:00.000-04:00

I have a quote pinned to the bulletin board on my kitchen wall by Mark Twain. It reads:

If we taught children to speak in the way in which we teach them to write, we'd all stutter.

As my children are preparing for their first day of school tomorrow, I have Mr. Clemens' words rolling around in my head, sloshing up on the sides, and mixing with all my other knowledge of child-rearing and behavior and learning theories. Of all the books I've read voraciously, of all the experts whose lectures I've audited willingly, and of all the random strangers who have advised me against my will, his words carry the strongest flavor as I dust off the backpacks and prepare for the scholastic year.

When children are learning to speak, we praise every effort they make. When random babbling sounds that contain the syllables ma and da emanate from a crib, we come running insisting that we were called. When unintelligible gibberish combine with an imperiously pointed chubby index finger in the general direction of a toy, we rush to get the toy, quite certain that it was requested. As listeners to our children's attempts at language, we more than meet them halfway. We meet them all the way, naming people and objects for them over and over again. We alter our own language and tone to make language inviting, appealing and even more accessible to little voices.

Over time the vocal apparatus develops. Our children exercise more and more control and because their efforts have been met with such unyielding enthusiasm from everyone around them, they begin to take the burden of speech off of us, their parents. They meet us halfway with words and gestures. And before we know it, we're wondering silently, and on a bad day aloud, why on earth we taught them to speak in the first place? And now they are speaking non-stop, how do we get them to shut up?

(If you're wondering how I plan to answer that age-old question, please stop kidding yourself. I have no idea how to legally and humanely make an 8 year-old girl stop talking. That's why I write this blog every few months. I have no quiet. )

So why is it that all learning is not handled this way? So many people cannot write and hate to read more than a twitter post, that it frightens me. But when I think back to my own writing curriculum in school, I do not recall anyone instructing me with a Twain-motivated philosophy. I had one honors English teacher, in fact, who insisted her students use a specific type of lined paper for each assignment that she alone had in her classroom and would pass out. I was absent on the day of one particular poetry assignment, but my mom picked up my homework from the guidance counselor so I could keep up. My pile did not include the special paper.

I decided I would write my poem on several other kinds of paper and hoped to get either an extra sheet in advance of my class the next day or at least be able to hand in my work on one of the three different kinds of inferior paper. Well, that was not the case. The teacher refused to give me the special paper until after class, and would not accept my work on the inferior paper. I was to go home and rewrite my poem on her paper that night, and she would accept it the following day. Being a good English student, I did as I was told, not understanding the sanctity of her looseleaf notebook at all.

Two days later she returned my graded poem. I got a C and the following comment: I have lowered your grade one full letter grade for being late and one full letter grade for writing your poem on paper that wasn't provided.

Was she f-ing kidding?! Nope. She was deadly serious. As as adult, I wonder how hard up she must have really been to pour all of that sexual frustration into lined notebook paper, but as a kid I was devastated. I hated English after that and dreaded it every day. Sadly, it had been my favorite subject.

Imagine if that frustrated nut had been my mother teaching me to speak as a baby!!! I'd be Twain's prophecy fulfilled-- irrefutably a stutterer, if not entirely a mute. I can certainly think of a few choice hand gestures for her to make my meaning plain.

Fortunately for me, my story in terms of my literary education doesn't end there. My gloriously interfering mother had me pulled from that lunatic's honors class put into another one. I grew up to major in English in college, concentrating on 19th century British literature. I even learned to speak and write in middle English while studying Chaucer. And to this day, I consistently write on all kinds of variously lined of paper, and even some types with no lines at all.

So as I pack up the lunches and put them in the fridge ready for tomorrow, I make a wish and a promise this year to my children. I wish that their teachers will meet them all the way as they learn new things, and yield to them as their confidence and abilities grow. And I promise that as their mother I will be as enthusiastic about every attempt they make, praise them even as they struggle, so that by the end of the year my husband and I stare in horror at the summer, and wonder how the hell we'll quench their incessant thirst for learning for the next three months.

Happy First Day of School!
Cheers,
Chris
muttstoorder@gmail.com

Summer Reading: my path to the big O

2011-06-24T23:29:00.000-04:00

Man of My Dreams by Johanna Lindsay- Avon Historical Romance

For my summer reading, I've decided to forgo the usual beach trash novels and slip into something more comfortable. My first two selections of the summer were Mindset: the New Psychology of Success by Dr. Carol Dweck, and The Brain and Emotional Intelligence: New Insights by Dr. Daniel Goleman. Surprisingly, neither book cover has a portrait of Fabio passionately gripping a healthy-looking, if scantily clad, woman on the cover, but contrary to the boring cover art, both are super juicy reads.

Dweck's research focuses on mindset or how an individual frames their thinking based on how they view the brain. Some people think of the brain as a muscle that can be built up and strengthened through exercise and practice, and some feel it is a fixed attribute that you either got a lot of or very little at birth that cannot be changed. Dweck asserts that a person's success or failure in life can be directly attributed to their mindset. You either operate on the premise that you can increase your intelligence and talents, and therefore be more successful through effort and passion, or you believe that you're either smart or not, talented or not, successful or not, and therefore everything that happens to you is either an affirmation of your positive view of yourself or contradiction of that view. Which mindset you operate from will determine your success in life. Can you guess which one breeds success and which one condemns you to failure?

According to her research and the research of others including Alfred Binet, the inventor of the ever-looming IQ test, with passion and effort, you can actually raise your IQ, play the violin like Itzhak Perlman, or tennis like Rafael Nadal. As a professional deeply connected to biology, I already knew that, in a way, because the achievement of one member of a species dictates the potential for every member. That's why when one elephant recognized herself in a mirror during an experiment designed to determine the self-awareness of mammals, scientists branched out to say that all elephants are self-aware.

Babar, his sexy bad self

But since an elephants primping in front of a mirror doesn't do much for humans who aren't turned on by Babar, Dweck entices her readers with tales about how Michael Jordan was cut from his high school basketball team and didn't get into his first choice college. He just loved to play and worked 10 times harder after every failure and setback. He made his own success, and to such a level that people call him the greatest player ever to play the game. It wasn't raw athletic talent that got him there. In fact, he was downright clumsy as a kid. It was his passion for the game and unstoppable effort thats drove him to his current status. Pretty sexy stuff, right?

On the flip side, how many "brilliant" people do you know that can barely tie their shoes, navigate the freeway or are just plain unable to get out of their own way long enough to make something of themselves? I know many people who think they're smart, so they don't bother to work hard and never become successful. And I know a bunch of others who after failing once, just quit. They figure they must not be talented, so they move on. And you thought Fabio didn't become a neurosurgeon because he was dumb and pretty and couldn't do a damn thing about it... nope, turns out he's just passionless and lazy.

Turned on yet? Well, let's kick it up a notch then...

Goleman's brain book is a bit more technical. It covers everything from where emotions are generated inside the brain (those pesky amygdalae. Oh yes, there's 2-- a right and a left!) to how those emotions then spread out to other parts of the brain driving our decision-making processes, behaviors, and yes, even affecting the people around us. We actually have something called mirror neurons that fire when someone else does or feels something. So if a student in my classroom raises her hand to speak, the hand-raising neuron fires in her brain. Now here's the part that gets me hot... At the same time, if I see her raise her hand, that self same neuron fires in my brain too. And look at that- a little girl on girl action too...

Hot and bothered yet? Ok... let me try to blow your mind now... before I get personal.

With my mouth watering after the mirror neuron chapter, not to mention all the stuff about empathy development and the connections between the reptilian brain (the oldest part) and the gut (Yup- gut feelings are real), I was absolutely writhing in ecstasy when I got to the chapter about creativity and innovation-- seriously, the peak of passion. You see I already believe that all learning is a creative process, but especially so for our canine friends. So at this point, let me go solo for a minute so you can just stand back and watch...

As a lure and reward trainer, I present a piece of food in a very specific way to motivate my dog to perform a behavior or assume a position. That piece of food and the way I move it becomes a guiding signal which in turn becomes a hand signal that indicates to the dog a precise request. It is communication once the dog knows the signal, but the process of figuring it out requires the dog to get creative. I present the food. Then he has to figure out what he needs to do in order for me to release the food from my hand to his mouth. It's problem solving at it's most basic level.

When teaching a new skill to a dog, there is a process that repeats itself every time. When the food is presented, the dog focuses intensely for several minutes making various attempts to get me to release it. Some dogs try all sorts of behaviors hoping one will be the key that fits my lock. Others stare at the food intensely. This can go on for several minutes or more. Then out of no where, the dog will walk away and turn her attention to something else entirely. Owners often feel frustrated at what appears to be a pause in the learning, but I caution them not to lose heart. Having done this like a million times, I know that this "break" is part of the process of learning. After a minute, I re-engage the dog. And then BANG! the big O... The dog has an A-HA! moment.

This is the moment that the dog gets it, offers the right behavior, and therefore earns reinforcement, the treat. I often explain to my clients that in this A-HA! moment they'll be able to see an expression on their dog's face that says: OH! I GET IT! And if you look closely, there will be a little light bulb above her head. I'm being cute to keep my clients motivated, but according to Goleman's research, I'm exactly right. That's the moment a new connection in the brain is formed. Who knew beastiality could be so exciting!

The creative process or the path to a neuro-orgasm is this:

First, frame out and then immerse yourself completely in a problem. Study it from every angle, at every level, inside out and upside down.
Then do something TOTALLY DIFFERENT and unrelated. Let go. Walk away and relax.
That's when the idea, the solution, the innovation will appear... when you're in the shower, on the treadmill, in a dream.

So now that we're climaxing, I'll get down and dirty about myself...

My beast of a rottweiler has a rather disgusting habit that has irritated me for years. I have tried to put up with it, train against it, and manage it, but it never goes away. It's messy and gross. A complete turn off. He eats stuff from the waste paper baskets. As a trainer, I've heard and tried many solutions to this problem including:

spray bitter apple in the waste paper baskets (he likes the taste)
teach him to LeaveIt and use it often (I'd have to put it on a loop)
close the doors to the bathrooms (3 year-olds forget)
Soak tissues in hot sauce and leave them for him to find (just yuck)
Line the waste paper baskets with duct tape (that didn't end well for anyone)
buy more toys and rotate them and stuff them with treats (useless)
walk him more (really useless)

I've recommended most of it. I've done all of it, but it never works. It never stops him completely and I'm always working on it.

After 4 years of living with him, I decided to give up. If he eats tissues, cotton balls, and maxi pads, who am I to judge? It's not the worst problem in the world. Besides, what's a little pica between friends? He's a terrific dog, the best I've ever had. Everyone has some kind of fetish...

So I finally just let go. And then one night I was standing in the kitchen eating ham and grey poupon over my sink, and lightening struck. In a passionate fury, I ran to all the bathrooms and acted out my sudden fantasy. Then I stood back and basked in the glow.

I put all the waste paper baskets inside the sink cabinets because it suddenly occurred to me that Hunter, although well-endowed in many ways, doesn't have opposable thumbs. He can't open the cabinets.

Ahhh.... satisfaction.

Go have an herbal cigarette... and happy summer reading!

Follow me on twitter!

Chris Fisher, CPDT-KA
muttstoorder@gmail.com
http://www.muttstoorder.com

The Marvel of Written News: a no kitty porn zone

2011-05-17T14:47:00.000-04:00

I'm completely obsessed with reading the news. While I abhor news on television, I absolutely love READING news articles. As often as I can, I pour over foreign and domestic newspapers and magazines, the AP news service on my blackberry, and Google news whenever I log on to my MacBook. I'm a news junkie. I love TMZ and E! celebrity gossip. I love political news, health studies, and human interest. I like it all. And I'm usually quick to email links to articles of interest to my friends, including but not limited to one about a female guest at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, suffering from lyme disease, who showed up in the lobby wearing pink panties on the outside of her pants while waving a gun and speaking "gobbledygook," according to a hotel maid. Who knew lyme disease could be so exciting!? Seriously, she may on the invite list for my next cocktail party.

I also forward things about politics--the national debt in particular-- when I'm feeling snarky, as well articles about medical studies and stuff made in China that will kill you like the Miley Cyrus jewelry collection at Wal-Mart and the warning from our government about what to do if you have sheetrock in your home that was manufactured in China. Apparently, you should rent a HAZMAT suit and rip it out to avoid a catastrophic health incident. Good times.

TV News, on the other hand, you can keep out behind the barn and use it to fertilize your garden, as that's about all it's good for. It's way too wrapped up in graphics, logos, and if you watch Fox, big boobs and stripper hair. Not that I have a problem with big boobs and stripper hair, or logos for that matter. I've been known to possess all three from time to time, but when I'm trying to consider legitimate issues that affect real people in the real world, it's hard to focus when it's being delivered by a comic book character. (Relax, Femme-Bots... We all know why people watch Anderson Cooper on CNN too. It's not his reporting skill(?) so much as that tight black t-shirt. Yum.)

So I tend to skip TV news unless something imminent is happening-- e.g. world trade center bombing, natural disasters, presidential addresses and debates. Otherwise I'm all about news for the literate, as my friends and husband, who are subjected to my emailed selections quite regularly, can attest. Surprisingly, I forward very little about animal rights, animal welfare, or photos of animals doing odd things or in odd places accompanied by cloying human commentary. As much as I am an animal trainer by profession and lover by genetics, I find most animal writing to be so heart-wrenching that I can barely read it without falling apart. (Yes, Charlotte's Web is a really tough read for me. Don't even bring up Old Yeller. Honestly, even the Pedigree dog food commercials get to me.) As for the photo stuff... well, that's just undignified. Sorry, but no cat feels good about himself when he's stuffed into a toilet and photographed. If cats received email, that kind of thing would be illegal to possess or traffic. There would FBI raids and CBS crime dramas about it.

In an effort to avoid trafficking kitty porn or spread depression, I make it a rule not to send out articles or emails about animals, but this week I'm breaking all the rules. I'm wearing white before Labor Day, putting dimes in my penny loafers, and blogging about animal news stories. A few days ago, my gem of a husband forwarded me two news stories that when read together poignantly and irreverently illustrate the depth and complexity of the animal thread that weaves through the tapestry of human life that I had no choice.

They are linked below.

Read. Laugh. Get misty-eyed. And remember that in this crazy modern world, it makes perfect sense that a chihuahua is an ass and a cigarette-eating donkey is man's best best. Enjoy the marvel of written news.

http://www.3news.co.nz/Chihuahua-causes-bomb-scare/tabid/417/articleID/211324/Default.aspx

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/43034782/ns/us_news-wonderful_world/t/marines-iraqi-donkey-headed-nebraska/

Cheers,
Chris

Christen Fisher, CPDT-KA
http://www.muttstoorder.com
muttstoorder@gmail.com

What's the bigger turn on? Dominance in Neiman Marcus, Submission in Nobu, or Aggression in Pakistan

2011-05-09T18:24:00.000-04:00

There is a poll on TMZ.com asking readers whether or not they think Barack Obama had victory sex with Michelle after his press conference informing the public of the death of Osama Bin Laden. Is hunting down and killing the world's most wanted criminal an aphrodisiac? 80% of those polled said yes, including me, but I'm probably the only person polled to base my theory on evolutionary reasons.

Clients ask me all the time if they are dominant enough over their dog. Sometimes they worry they have a dominant dog because he behaves aggressively towards strangers. Some people say that because their dog listens to them and not their spouse or their children that the dog is dominant over their kids or their spouse. I am peppered with these types of concerns as we have been so steeped in this conversation about dominance ever since the Dog Whisperer showed up on Oprah.

Unfortunately, these discussions are actually pointless and inane because dominance is not a personality trait. The definition of dominance is having priority access to a valuable resource. So you couldn't say, "Hey look. There's Chris. She's very priority access." It just makes no sense. But when I go to Neiman Marcus, all the sales girls come running over to wait on me and fall all over me because I'm a shopaholic and my forehead flashes the words "Big Commission" as soon as I pass over the threshold of any retail establishment. You could say I'm displaying dominance over the Jimmy Choo table in the shoe salon at Nieman Marcus. I have priority access to a highly valuable resource.

the ultimate dominance display... in retail, anyway

Now how is it I display my dominant position? I flash my well-worn platinum card and all the sales girls immediately demonstrate submission by crooning, "How are you, Mrs. Fisher? How may I help you today? Would like a glass of champagne while you shop? Your children are so well-behaved." I don't force them into it. They offer it to me freely. And if they do it well enough, and I like something, I buy it. They get their commission. I get shoes. The world is a happy place. Am I dominant?

A submissive posture... at least to the hostess

The flip side of this is when I showed up an hour late for a dinner reservation at sushi hotspot Nobu 57 last week. I immediately displayed submission to the hostess by profusely apologizing for my tardiness and begging for a table. When she airily replied, "We'll let you know," I showed further submission by grasping her hand in both of mine. I then said imploringly to her, "I'd really appreciate it if you could please help me out," while simultaneously slipping a twenty dollar bill into her hand. She smiled broadly and then said,"Follow me, I might have something left." Now I got exactly what I wanted, but I got it, not by being dominant over the hostess, but by being submissive. I appeased her through my apology, flattered her by asking for her help, and eventually bribed her to get me a table. And it worked. I got what I wanted by being submissive. And she played along and got what she wanted... an easy $20. Am I submissive?

So now you've seen me display both dominance to get what I want... shoes and submission to get what I want... a table at Nobu. So how on earth can you classify me as dominant or submissive when I am capable of displaying both at any given time as the situation demands?

So you see neither dominance nor submission are personality attributes. They are actually complex social tools used to avoid violence among familiars, creatures who need each other to survive. Ah... and there's the rub. The salesgirls need me to make a living. I need them to buy shoes. The hostess at Nobu needs customers in order to make a living and I need dinner. Jimmy Choos and sushi may not be the National Geographic version of a life or death struggle, but they are distillations of it in my world. My ability to switch between displays of dominance and submission depending on the circumstances is what allows me to be a glamourous diner in fabulous shoes, in other words, a functional member of society.

I could have gone another route at Nobu. I could have shouted at the hostess, threatened her with violence if she didn't give me a table, but that behavior isn't socially acceptable. More than likely she would have only been intimidated enough by my display to see that I was seated in the back of squad car belonging to New York's finest.

image borrowed from www.mysuccessdependsonit.com

By definition, aggressive behavior is anti-social. In this case, I would have been removed from Nobu and probably barred for life. Aggression towards familiars is inappropriate and results in being outcast from society and later featured on TMZ. The same holds true for shoe salon at Neiman Marcus. I could have tried to steal the shoes from the girls at gunpoint, but eventually I would have been arrested, shoes confiscated and back on the homepage of TMZ. Does this sound eerily like Lindsay Lohan's average day or is it just me?

So in order for all of us familiars to transact with one another smoothly and in such a way that allows for our survival so that we fulfill our biological purpose which is to pass 50% of our genes and our jewelry onto the next generation, we have evolved to use complex displays of dominance and submission on demand as the situation calls for it, and not aggression. Otherwise, my friend Kelly would have been killed or killed for a good pair of Manolos years ago.

Dominance in Neiman's + Submission in Nobu = 50% Genetic material & jewelry available to pass on to next generation

Now back to the question at hand: Are either a turn on? Well, they are if you like socially adept behavior which most of us do. If I became the crazy lady who strips down in Neiman's and waved a gun around demanding shoes or the lunatic in Nobu who starts flipping tables and screaming, "I want one of my own!" it might be funny... but I doubt I would be at the top of your "dying to date" list.

So if wanton aggression isn't a turn on or even date material, then why on earth do I think the Obamas got jiggy with it after the death of Osama bin Laden? Why is aggression in Pakistan a turn on? Honestly you should be able to guess by now if you've been paying attention....

c'mon... at least try...

Ok. Because Osama bin Laden is NOT a familiar. Do you depend on him for your own survival? Hello??? Of course not. In fact, he has proven himself to be an enormous threat to our entire society. An act of aggression is an appropriate response to an outside threat if it results in the preservation of life within the pack. Any alpha worth his salt should not only exemplify the highest levels of fluency in dominant and submissive behavior among his familiars, but also protect the pack vehemently from outside threats.

How does this lead to the sex question? Well, alphas have priority access to everything including mates, so biologically and evolutionarily speaking, Michelle should have given it up to Barack last weekend. Killing Osama bin Laden was incredibly sexy, evolutionarily speaking of course.

Cheers,
Chris

Christen Fisher, CPDT-KA
muttstoorder@gmail.com
http://www.muttstoorder.com

Certifiable? That's the big news?

2011-04-19T20:20:00.000-04:00

I admit, I've been fairly MIA lately... I could blame the kids or all the traveling we've been doing, but my attempt to be clever while whining about the same-old, same-old might make you read: blah blah blah. And then I'd be wasting my cheeky turns of phrase to say merely that we've been traveling a lot and my kids are driving me batty.

In other big news...

Last fall, I decided to attempt the exam offered by the Certification Council for Professional Dog Trainers. In order to sit for this exam, you must have documented at least 300 hours as a head trainer (in other words writing the curriculum, designing the lessons, teaching/interacting with the clients, etc) and then have a letter of recommendation from a client, a colleague and a veterinarian. If the council approves your application to take the test, you must be well-versed in learning theory (both canine and human), ethology, animal husbandry, disease control, training equipment, classroom/client management, and the American Disabilities Act in order to pass it. I filled out the ridiculously long application, got my recommendations (which almost killed me because I hate to ask anyone for anything, especially clients and colleagues) and was subsequently approved to sit for the exam. YAY ME!!! Then I procrastinated for at least three months.

sit and look pretty!

About two weeks before the exam, I completely flipped out (yes, that is a behaviorist term generally used to describe irrational and unproductive yelling, crying and self-battery) because... hello? I had to sit for the exam in two weeks and hadn't done a damn thing, but sit on my ass like I was wearing sit-and-look-pretty shoes the last few months. (You know those shoes... some rapper calls it shoe-icide. Anything in the Manolo, Choo, Louboutin category, shoes that were clearly designed to be seen, not to be worn.)

After a cocktail and a verbal slap from my more grounded partner, I calmed down, strapped on my boots and started pulling them up. I studied all the books I had already read and all the material I hand out to my clients on a regular basis. I reviewed all the notes I ever took in every seminar I've ever attended. I studied after the kids went to bed and before they got up. I studied while sitting in the carpool line, sitting at activities, before, after, and during dinner. I even made flashcards to help remember all the different types of parasites dogs can pick up, their symptoms, prognosis, treatment and prevention. My 8 year-old tested me on the way to and from school and the gym every day. (Allie is now well-versed in whipworms, hookworms, giardia and sarcoptic mange. She now refuses to play in the dirt, freaks out if she sees a mosquito, and wants a bubble for her birthday, but that's another blog.)

Anyway, I finally sat for the four-hour computerized exam on March 18th at 9 AM. And upon completion at the 3 hours and 40 minute mark (I like to check my work) was told that although the proctor can see my results immediately, I will be informed by snail mail in approximately six weeks. What the F&%$! All that foreplay, and no climax? What a hideous joke. Not to mention-- snail mail? Really? A computerized exam and I can't get an email? I have to wait for Bimal at the Far Hills post office to sort it out and make a trip down my rural route. (No joke, there are SIX post offices within a five-mile radius of my house, but technically I live on a rural route. And we wonder why the US Post Office is losing money.) Ridiculous. But if there is anything I've learned as parent and a dog trainer, you can't fight ridiculous.

So I spent the last four weeks running away. I went on two vacations and spent a lot of time at the gym. And then one night, while feeling horribly jet-lagged and yet still reading Harry Potter aloud to Allie, Matt came in and said, "Guess what? And I'm sorry."

Never a good combination of phrases.

Sleepy-eyed, I answered a perfunctory, "what?"

"Well, I sort of accidentally opened your test results. I thought it was a bill from a medical lab." he replied sheepishly. Ok so PTC- Professional Testing Corporation envelope totally looks like it contains cholesterol results... I can't get mad. Well, I can, but I shouldn't.

See? Totally... cholesterol results

"Great. And?" I waited for him to lower the boom.

"You crushed it! 238 out of 250. That's like a 94%. Congratulations, Hon. Thats's awesome." He smiled broadly, his eyes sparkling.

It would take me another week to feel sparkly myself, and only after I decided not to tell anyone about it at all, then sulked about all the work I'd have to do to change my business cards, website, etc. when I finally did start telling people, then had an anxiety attack about the fact that I wanted to use my certification to build the business but I can't because I have two small kids, and so my business putt-putts along the road to nowhere. Matt had very little patience for what he termed "my goddamn negativity" (Yes, we stole that from Wedding Crashers- love that movie). He's an idea man, after all. He thrives on enthusiasm. :)

So after all of that nonsense and just before Matt resorted to slapping me (probably a real one this time), I shook off my funk, buckled down to my piles of paper work for both my new certification and my clients (if you're waiting for a behavior eval from me, it's in the works... don't worry!), and wrote this blog announcing that I PASSED A VERY BIG EXAM!!! (Happy Hon?)

Well, I am, at least... finally. Being nationally credentialed is a big deal in my world. There are only 2000 trainers that even hold this certification. So now, my faithful readers, I'm no longer just some nutball who loves dogs. It turns out I'm certifiable.

Cheers,
Chris, CPDT-KA
muttstoorder@gmail.com
http://www.muttstoorder.com

Abstinence vs. Responsibility

2011-03-06T15:43:00.000-05:00

Whoa... the dangers of over-training

As a dog trainer, it’s par for the course to encounter clients who are resistant to using “people food” as treats when training their puppy or dog. When I ask why they feel this way, I routinely get the following answers:

I don’t want my dog to get fat
I don’t want to bribe my dog
I don’t want my dog to beg at the table or steal from the counter

All of these are legitimate concerns on the part of the table-food fearing owner, but surprisingly they’re all pretty unfounded.

Food is, what’s referred to by behaviorists as, a primary reinforcer. In other words, it feels good when you eat, so behaviors that are rewarded by good tasting and smelling food will increase in frequency. As a training tool, that’s fairly essential. If we want to increase the number of times a dog sits when we ask it to, then we need to reward the dog when it sits with something instantly appealing. Other primary reinforcers include sleep, water, air and sex. Sleep is clearly impractical to use as a reward in training. Withholding water or air is simply cruel. And a puppy class that uses sex as a reward for a down-stay may get us all on the six o’clock news as the bullet before Charlie Sheen’s latest rant, so eliminating that one leaves us with food. Now on to the concerns

Debunking Champ the Chubber

I worked with a fantastic trainer years ago that handled the first issue by announcing to her class, “No dog ever got fat from training too much.” She’d then proceed to walk her own dog through the class apologizing for his feigned obesity by saying, “He’s not fat, he’s just well-trained.”

The truth is that most chubby dogs are usually UNDER-stimulated mentally and/or physically. Mealtime ends up being the one time each day Champ can count on some human attention. And food, as we all know, feels good. It’s one of life’s most basic pleasures. And for dogs with little or no mental or physical stimulation, it is life’s only pleasure. Some days will naturally contain more stimulation for your pup than others, but if more often than not your only interaction with Champ is mealtime, then over time Champ will shut down on you--no tricks, no listening—except in the presence of food. It is therefore a distinct lack of training and positive interaction with humans that turns a dog into an incorrigible chowhound.

In addition, well-intentioned owners don’t always have time to fit in the 2-3 recommended walks or play/training sessions per day. Neglecting Champ’s needs makes the loving owner feel guilty, and so they toss some juicy scraps down from the table to make up for their schedule’s shortcomings. I myself have been known to occasionally substitute chicken or steak for attention. “See how much Mommy loves you, Champ? I bought you a flank steak at the butcher shop!” Once in a while a flank steak is not a big deal, but over time substituting food for attention, training and exercise will make Champ a big chubber.

Eluding lard-ass Lassie

To be clear about bribes, a bribe is a form of coercion. You offer something in order to try to force something in return. When I give my barking, jumping annoying dog eggs to try to keep him quiet while I eat, I’m bribing him. “Here, Lassie, if I give you some bacon grease, will you let mommy eat?” And the problem with a bribe is that it needs to grow at a rate directly proportional to the rate at which the dog’s opinion of the bribe declines. The first day it takes just a piece of bacon to satisfy him. The next day it takes a slice, maybe two. After a month, you’ll be making two full American breakfasts and eating yours in the bathroom with the door locked while lard-ass Lassie howls and scratches at the door. Not a pretty picture.

So if training doesn’t make your dog fat. And you’re not using food as a substitute for Fido’s other needs, and you’re not using it as a bribe. Then the only problem left is that you don’t want Fido to develop a taste for people food and therefore take it upon himself to steal from the counters or beg from the table. This concern is slightly more complicated to address.

For love of the Flintstones

As we all know (or should know), dogs evolved from wolves and the like by essentially becoming scavengers of human settlements. Let’s face it. It was probably way easier to snag a half-eaten brontosaurus bone tossed out Fred Flintstone’s window than it was to hunt down your own brontosaurus for dinner. Scavenging from humans is a natural canine behavior, but one that can be curtailed through proper training. My own dogs learn that all of the wonderful smells filling our house when I’m scrambling eggs and frying bacon can be theirs for the low, low price of a quiet down-stay in the corner of the kitchen while I cook, serve and eat.

When I’m done, I happily shower my pup with leftover eggs and bacon. They never get scraps tossed down from the table or the counter. They never get anything unless they sit politely. That’s where that pesky training thing comes in. My dogs get nothing for free, nothing for being cute, almost nothing because I feel guilty including but not limited to walks, petting, meals, water, car rides, doors opened, etc. They must sit for everything or they get nothing.

This works on two levels. On level one, my dog’s good manners are second nature to them since they practice regularly. On level two, my boys have the idea that sitting gets them access to pretty much everything they could ever dream of, so why bother doing anything else? Jumping up, stealing, and other covert or overt rude behaviors are risky and require effort. Why should they even try those things when sitting works almost every time and has no risk of negative consequences. Max thinks, “if I sit, I’ll get, so I sit. If I do anything else, I don’t get, so what’s the point?” Just like they sat and waited outside Fred and Wilma’s kitchen window for a brontosaurus leg to fly through it, the same scavenging instinct can be the basis for holding a quiet down-stay in the corner of my kitchen while I cook, serve and eat.

It was genius of those wolves to scavenge behind man and domesticate themselves. What a coup to circumvent their eat-or-be-eaten wild existence. If I follow these humans, I get to eat their scraps without risking life and paw. And if I do stuff for them like guard or herd their livestock or help them hunt, they’ll give me the stuff I’m looking for willingly, plus a warm safe place to sleep. And it’s a coup for modern-day dogs too. If I sit and wait, she’ll drop eggs on the floor right at my feet. And of course, I do from time to time.

“But if you give it to them once, won’t they expect it every time?” Says the still uncertain owner.

Yes, it absolutely does. And you’re counting on that, because it doesn’t mean you have to give it to them every time. And that’s what will maintain the good behavior.

You gotta be in it to win it

Here’s where that pesky behaviorism stuff comes into training. With the exception of the world’s workforce, who illogically operates solely on a fixed interval schedule (as in pay check every 2 weeks), most behaviors are maintained because they are rewarded intermittently. Think of the people who buy lottery tickets every week. Most of them never win, but they keep at it because there is a chance they MIGHT win. And as they say, you have to be in it to win it. Your dog works the same way. He might not get the eggs and bacon every time he sits in the kitchen quietly, but there’s a chance. And that chance ONLY exists if he sits or lies down quietly in the corner while you eat. If he begs, attempts to steal, or performs any other annoying trick, he’ll either be sent back to his spot and told to lie down, or he’ll be put in his crate. No bacon and eggs. But if he buys that lottery ticket by lying down in the corner of the kitchen, he’s in it… and therefore by definition he has a chance to win it.

In the end, I tell my clients that you have to face facts… Do you really think the smell of frying bacon on a Sunday morning or a barbecued ribs on the grill on a warm summer night has a chance at NOT smelling amazing to your dog? To your neighbors? To anyone within nose-shot? No way, Man. It will be appealing whether you give it to them or not. Teaching abstinence doesn’t work. You’re better off teaching responsibility.

So this week, engage in some good old-fashioned primary reinforcement. Eat food. Sleep. Have sex. Breathe air. Drink water or wine. Just be responsible. ;)

Cheers,
Chris
muttstoorder@gmail.com
http://www.muttstoorder.com

Navigating the Seasonal Affect Train Using Astrology

2011-01-30T13:42:00.000-05:00

So we've had at least one snow day per week since Christmas vacation, and one could say I'm losing it. There's no routine. We're trapped inside. The snow is over my son's head, and I've begun to crack under the pressure. Needless to say to those of you who are parents or were in a past life, my children are cracking up as well. They're bored and irritable with each other. They miss the fresh air and the sunlight and the outdoors in general. And since we have all boarded the seasonal affect train to crazy town, I might as well tell you that Hunter has decided to go along with us for the ride.

Yes, he's working. We've been visiting the library and the veterans hospital, but once or twice a month for an hour is not exactly "getting out." It's more the equivalent of 15 minutes in the yard after two months of solitary. Walking has become an extreme sport, so in its absence Hunter has resumed his pica hobby-- eating socks, dirty tissues and occasionally his own feces. Some of us knit or read. He consumes non-food objects.

To be honest, I'm at a loss. I can't control the weather. I feel as cooped up as a chicken in heat and about as rational as one, so I've resorted to following my three cardinal rules in order to cope:

1. If it's not fun, don't do it.
2. If it's true, it's not mean
3. When all else fails, have a cocktail and shop online.

So as of tonight, I've had one beer and two glasses of wine (that's a lot for me) and I'm ignoring my children and my dog. I bought a pool table, six pairs of pants, and a new purse. And while I definitely feel that these actions have improved the overall ride on the crazy train, they have not changed our destination or solved my problem of what to do with my supernaturally bored children and dog, which brings me to the last and least used of my rules... after you've had a few and shopped, consider an alternative lifestyle.

No, I'm not going to ask my husband if he wants to swing, nor do I plan to join the Big Apple Circus as the dog lady... I'm thinking more along the lines of throwing out all of my child-rearing books including the ones written by the renowned T. Berry Brazelton, Dr. Spock, and the best STEP Training as well as my canine lit authored ones by none other than Ian Dunbar, Patricia McConnell, and Ali Brown... and instead consulting Linda Goodman's Sun Signs. Yup, it's astrology-time, folks... I'm just that desperate.

In case you've been living under a rock or aren't a daily horoscope reader, I'm an Aries, the ram. I have all the classic signs-- fiery temper with a reddish tint to my hair in the sunlight, incredibly friendly, dominant in every conversation, honest and blunt to a detriment, vain, hard-headed like the ram, and completely (although innocently) self-absorbed... hello, I write a blog. Anyway, my husband is a Pisces, the fish... the wise, soulful, dreamy end of the astrological cycle-- in other words, my exact opposite. He's the quintessential water sign, while I'm the quintessential fire sign... Together we're a steamy couple. (See? It's January. There's a reason most babies are born in September... 9 months later? But I digress...)

My children are not so extreme in the astrological assignments. Allie is a cancer. (Gee- that's a lovely statement). Her sign is cancer-moon child. Another water sign, but instead of being a fish, she's a crab... approaching things sideways, hard on the outside but soft and vulnerable underneath. Moody, but incredibly happy with hearth and home, deeply dedicated to her friends, and moves to the loony (meaning LUNAR in this case) beat of her own unique little drum. That's my girl. Always has been. Always will be. Rereading the passages in Ms. Goodman's book about how to raise a Cancer-Moon child is always helpful, or at least validating. I often turn to the passages about the importance of friendship to a little crab when my daughter incurs hurts from the dreaded girl dynamic in her class and my impatient Aries nature would rather her blow it off. And remembering that crabs run sideways and not head on (like Rams for instance) helps me to remember to be patient while she works things out for herself at her own pace. Allie has an insightful and unique view of the world and the people in it as most who are ruled by the moods of the moon do. She's happiest by the ocean under a full moon.

My son is a Taurus, the bull. And like any bull, Julian is easy going, charming and relatively calm unless seriously provoked. Then watch out for those horns. His preferred existence is to laze in the sun waiting for females to lavish attention on him. Yep, that's J right down to the bone. His slow, warm rhythm is a nice approach to life unless you are concerned at all about character and moral development or scholastic achievement. Then the lazy bull is a PITA (pain in the ass). Why should he name the colors for his teacher when he can raise one eyebrow and make her laugh? Why should he pick up his toys when he can flirt relentlessly with the babysitter until she does it for him with a smile and an attractively flushed cheek? Why should he sleep through the night, when mommy and daddy will come in at his every whimper and cuddle him?

So when we're all stuck in the house due to the snow, the crab annoys the bull with her snapping, the bull charges the crab, horns-bared. Then the ram, devoid of patience, begins to bash everything in sight with her own set of horns, upsetting the tidal pool where our wise fish lives. Astrologically speaking, the whole Fisher household has run amok because of a few snow storms... hence we're back to square one... cocktails and a horoscope.

So where does Hunter fit it? Well, you may be shocked to discover that as a well-schooled and experienced dog trainer, I don't generally apply the principles of astrology to my dogs or those of my clients as a means of behavior assessment. (I only use that at home with my children and husband.) Could you imagine paying me my fairly substantial fee for an aggression behavior consultation, only to have me whip out an astrological chart and a crystal ball? Yeah- that would go over well.

But since it's January and I'm snowed in yet again, I've decided to give it a go. In Hunter's case, he's a Taurus like Julian, born April 21st, 2007. That would make him like J in terms of his temperament. And I'd say that's fairly accurate. He's low-key, friendly and charming. He loves attention and food, but is fierce and scary if provoked. He's also strong as bull, but all rotties are so that can't really count. According to Astrology Weekly, the Taurean dog can be described as, " a plodding dog...strong, silent and determined. This canine may be led, but never driven. However, if allowed to move at a slow pace, the Taurus Dog has no problem in doing what is asked of him or her. Being close to the owner is heaven to this canine and in order to ensure comfort and security when the family is away from home, it is necessary to leave something with the Taurus Dog which contains his or her owner's scent. A lethargic and sometimes lazy soul, this canine would much rather sleep than run around." Yeah, that's him. Sleep and eat crap.

Wole (pronounced "Whoa-Lay), Hunter's predecessor, was an Aries, born April 13th, 1999. So he was more like me. According to Astrology weekly, an Arien dog can be described in the following way, "Aries is the first Sign of the Zodiac. The Aries Dog will live by the motto 'Me First' and there will be no 'please' about it. Life to this canine is an exciting, all-consuming challenge. This is a quick-tempered dog and, in extreme case, downright selfish. Given his or her position in the Zodiac, however, it is only natural that the Aries Dog would want to be leader of the pack. Physically, the Aries Dog is an active, energetic and urgent type of canine with an almost endless capacity for exercise who demands (and needs) long walks several times a day. This dog will enjoy a variety of activities, such as agility classes or playing frisbee. On a visit to the countryside, he or she will soon be picking up a scent or acting as a trailblazer. " Totally true. Wole was nuts. In Lake Placid, he once took off on his own, evading Matt for hours. When we did finally catch up to him, he refused to get in the truck or the boat without a bribe. It was all about Wole all the time. He required two to three 5 mile walks per day just to keep him from eating through the walls of our apartment. And if you've ever read my bio on my website, you'll know he did that too. Handful would be a great one-word description.

So maybe it is possible that astrology can tell you about your dog's temperament. While I have two rottweilers from the same breeder and who are actually related (Hunter's mom was Wole's niece) through line-breeding which is just a canine PC term to describe in-breeding, they were inherently different dogs. Perhaps it's the astrological differences that make them who they are. But of course, astrology is just an exercise in understanding unless you use to predict behavior. And three drinks into a Saturday night when it is snowing YET AGAIN, who cares about understanding... I want to know the future, so in an effort to help us all, I've turned to the single slutty girl's bible-- Cosmopolitan-- for a horoscope assist.

After side-tracking to take the quick "Are you good girl hot or bad girl hot?" quiz, I took a look at today's horoscopes for the Cosmo-girl and a few tweaks later turned them into horoscopes for the chronicles-dog. See below:

Aquarius
An only dog? Let your owner know you think s/he’s lickable by looking at his/her mouth for a few seconds while s/he’s talking. (note: don't do it while your human is eating or they won't notice a change in your behavior) Living with a few canine pals? Consider a slow, sensual snack session to help you all chill out under gloomy Saturn.

Pisces
Respectful Mars says that constructive criticism works wonders on a friend who might ask you for help with her look. Compliment her shiny coat or gorgeous tail before you suggest she smells like goose crap and needs a trip to the groomer.

Aries
Chatty Jupiter advises that gossip might be your best stress buster, but since you can't talk... Engaging in destructive chewing can help to take the pressure off.

Taurus

Neptune says that if you feel cramped in your crate to create the illusion of space by hanging a mirror opposite a cage wall or brighten a corner with a little vomit from a barbie shoe you ate earlier in the day.

Gemini

An only dog? A guy you see every day (hello... think mailman) might suddenly say all the right things. Living with a few dogs? A spontaneous humping session outside the bedroom helps to amp up your love life... or not.

Cancer

Jupiter encourages you to blow off a grudge that you might be harboring. The bad vibes from carrying a chip on your shoulder can stress your immune system. You got neutered. Let go of what's gone, Man.

Leo

An only dog? Be yourself with a new guy you’re trying to attract. Acting coy might make you look snotty under aloof Mars. Living in a pack? Clever Neptune suggests that you play bad girl tonight. The bolder you are, the more pleasure you’ll get. (ok- I couldn't change this one... it was funny by itself)

Virgo

Sensitive Mercury might incite a bout of stress-induced bitchiness. Curb it by being aware of what’s causing your angst—too many squirrels in your backyard, getting caught in stealing food from the counter. Identifying the reason helps you to regain your perspective.

Libra

Venus says that you’re the Diva and gives you her permission to indulge a guilty pleasure. Go on.. roll in goose shit at the park.

Scorpio

Enchanting Venus says that if you’re looking for style on a budget, to consider adding shabby-chic glamour to your crate or dining area by gnawing on the furniture or chewing holes in the area rugs.

Sagittarius

Laid-back Neptune wants you to chill out this weekend. Consider starting with a night of low-key fun like a slumber party with your pals or fetch with your guy.

Capricorn

Whether you’re an only dog or living with a pack, radiant Venus might bring a love-jolt to your system, like all over chills when your man or your crush surprises you with an unexpected belly rub.

Please note: If you have an adoptee with an unknown birthday, just gauge their temperament to pick a sun sign, then predict away!

Happy Snow Day!

Cheers.

Chris

muttstoorder@gmail.com

http://www.muttstoorder.com

Christmas Presents, Jewelry, Marrow Bones and Bubble Gum: Nothing in Life is Free

2011-01-07T09:10:00.000-05:00

the ultimate indulgence... a Tiffany box

As we exit the season of excess... excessive food, excessive alcohol, excessive gift-giving and receiving, I often find myself reflecting on questions like: how much is too much? Have I spoiled my children? My dog? Are inordinate Christmas presents and a warm kitchen full of homemade food really accessories to the crime of spoiling my children or are they just the spoils of a war waged by my husband in the jungles of Manhattan every day? Was I ruining my children or were we just honoring my husband's hard work and dedication, celebrating how he has provided for us?

A number of years ago, my mother was shopping in Savannah, Georgia with her husband. He was grinning broadly leading her from shop to shop offering to buy her whatever she fancied, but my mother, humble and gracious in her way, always returned his smile with lowered eyes and politely declined. This careful dance between them went on through several streets of shops until they happened upon one in which an elderly, southern black woman was seated by the counter. My mother admired the bracelets in the case next to the old woman's blue velvet chair, and the dance began this time with a spectator. My step-father encouraged his wife to select whichever bracelet she liked, and he'd get it for her. She smiled and politely declined. He began to look at scarves and handbags ready to repeat the steps of their dance again and again until she yielded. As he trudged away from the bracelet case, the elderly woman cleared her throat and looked pointedly at my mother. My mother looked up.

"Honey," she said in a thickly accented low voice. "I'm gonna give you some advice... from an old lady."

"Thank you," my mother replied, ever well-mannered.

"You let him buy you anything he wants because it makes him feel like a man."
Before my mother could respond, her husband returned. The old woman looked at my mother meaningfully and arched her eyebrows.

"Um, I think I like this one." She pointed to a pretty artisan-made bracelet in the case.

"Done," he replied as he reached for his wallet.

My mother looked at the old woman while the shopgirl fastened the clasp around her wrist. The old woman nodded her approval. My mother gracefully turned to show her husband the new bracelet on her wrist.

"Beautiful!" he exclaimed and took my mother's other hand to lead her out of the shop with a sparkle in his blue eyes and a quicker, surer step than he'd had all day.

My grandmother always says that my step-father enjoys spoiling my mother, but my mother is not remotely spoiled, as evidenced by her stream of polite refusals. In that exchange, what makes her NOT spoiled? Chew on that while I tell you another one...

On Thursday, I ran up to the Butcher Shop in the next town to get Hunter a treat. On Thursdays, the butcher gets a delivery of incredibly large smoked beef bones for dogs. For $5, I can get a meat and marrow covered, hand-smoked chew toy for Hunter that's roughly the size of my forearm. Pretty sweet. Anyway, the butcher wraps it in plastic for me and puts it into a bag, knotting the top. He does this because the bone absolutely reeks! Despite its careful packaging, the thing completely stinks up my car on the way home and my family room and kitchen once I get there. My house now smells more like mesquite than Christmas cookies. With that kind of olfactory extravaganza, you can be sure that the moment I pull into the garage Hunter knows exactly what kind of heat I'm packing.

And yet, I got out of the car, grabbed all the dry cleaning, my enormous purse, and my son and climbed a fight of stairs to my back hallway. I proceeded into the kitchen and dropped everything onto the counter, (except my son). I put Julian on the floor and handed him some apple juice. Then I shuffled him off to the playroom while I began to unpack my bags. I did all of this without a dog up my butt or in my face. On the contrary, Hunter remained quietly on his bed in our family room. No barking. No following. No sniffing or licking or jumping up. Na da. Zip. Nuthin.

After about 10 minutes, I called, "Hey Buddy" over the bar at him. Then he got up and trotted in to greet me, nose twitching excitedly as he approached. I scratched his ears and then went back to putting my stuff away. He went back to his bed.

When I finally got myself organized, I unwrapped his treat and walked over to his bed. He raised his head but didn't move. I put the bone down in front of him and then scratched his ears again. He still didn't move forward. As I turned away from him, heading to the playroom to check on the little man, I casually said, "ok." And then I heard him grab the bone and start gnawing on it. He has been doing just that quietly for the last couple of hours about two feet from my desk while I catch up on paperwork and write the blog.

Again, as my grandmother would say, I love to spoil him with special butcher shop treats, but once again he's not remotely spoiled. What do Hunter and my mother have in common, other than their love for me and the butcher shop? Why is it their primary companion can indulge and spoil them with gifts and treats, but they never behave badly?

They both lack a sense of entitlement. Entitlement is the root of all evil if you ask me... (ok, no one did, but it's my blog so I'll pontificate if I want to) and it is also the true idea behind spoiling. It isn't how many bones or walks or play sessions my dog gets. It isn't how many toys or pairs of shoes or how much attention my children get. The quality and quantity of stuff is not at issue. It's how they feel about what they're given. It is their understanding that nothing in life is free. Someone had to work to earn those things for them. Their good fortune is the result of effort, whether of their own efforts or someone else's. And it is their appreciation for that effort that prevents them behaving badly, from being spoiled, from thinking they're entitled to what they have.

Each of my clients receives a lesson in entitlement from me with regard to their relationship with their dogs. I don't call it that. I actually call it boot camp or learn to earn, but it's really a way to explain to your dog that they are not entitled to anything. Nothing in life is free. For most dogs, I start out with just teaching them to sit and then very quickly tell their owners that the dog should be sitting for everything. Think of sit like please, I say. You hold their brimming dinner bowl. They have to sit before you put it down. You hold their leash. They have to sit (and remain sitting) for you to put it on. They approach you while you're sitting on the sofa. They have to sit before you reach out and scratch their ears. Your dog should never feel entitled to anything. He shouldn't demand dinner, petting, attention. Demanding is rude. Attention-seeking behaviors like jumping up and stealing and chewing should not be encouraged or rewarded by paying attention to your dog in hopes that you'll satisfy him and he'll stop. If he think he's entitled to get what he wants whenever he wants regardless of anyone else, he'll never stop. Think about how outraged and determined you feel when you think your rights have been violated.

No, this is NOT my son...

For example, I was at the store with Julian this week. He sat in the cart in the checkout line and began to reach for bubble gum, a treat that I had let him have a few weeks ago. I said, "No, Dear, not today." He began to cry and carry on. He got loud... really loud... like clean up in aisle 4 loud. "You have to get that for me. I want it! You get it!" He howled and everyone turned and stared at me, the horrible woman who made that sweet little boy cry by denying his wish. Julian was in all his glory. He wanted the candy, felt entitled to have it, and when I said no he became enraged. In his two year-old mind, I had violated his rights. Well, in the tradition of Joe Clark in the movie Lean On Me, "Hey J, the only thing Mom has to do is stay white and die!"

And while the people behind me in line were probably horrified at my bluntness, I spoke the truth. Nothing in life is free or easy and when we labor under the delusion that we're entitled to something, anything at all... gum in the grocery line, bones from the butcher, or bracelets in the case, we become spoiled and self-righteous. It isn't about the quantity or the quality of what we have. It's about the understanding of where it comes from, how it's earned, and that life isn't fair. You might get something one time, but that's not a guarantee you'll get it again. You might see someone else enjoying something great, but that doesn't mean that you are entitled to what they have just because you want it.

Nothing in life is free. You've got to earn it yourself. Or when it's given to you, you've got to recognize that someone else earned it and you have to appreciate their efforts. If you don't do that, if you think you're entitled to it, and if you don't care what someone has to do in order to get it for you, then you're a spoiled brat whether it's Christmas presents, jewelry, marrow bones or bubble gum. It's not the item. It's the attitude.

Happy New Year, Everyone!
Cheers,
Chris

http://www.muttstoorder.com
muttstoorder@gmail.com

Twas the Night Before Christmas... chronicle-style

2010-12-24T17:24:00.000-05:00

X-mas Hunter... well, Hunter being a reeeeally good sport.

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
The grown-ups had started with Famous Grouse.
The children were finally tucked in for the night,
Their parents toasted the rare silence with delight.

The puppies we thought were all snug in their crates,
Dreaming of children dropping meat from their plates.
And Matt in his slippers and I in my Uggs,
Had just settled down and moved onto wine jugs.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the couch to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Matt cursed as he tripped over toys with a crash.

The Christmas lights on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When what to our bloodshot eyes should pop up,
But a dumpster, and eight of my clients' pups.

With a big clumsy leader, so bold in his trot,
I knew in a moment it must be Hunter, my crazy rott.
More rapid than greyhounds his buddies they came,
And he barked and howled and called them by name!

"Now Moxie! Now, Maxy! Now Tessa and Huck!
On Holly! On Harley! On Teddy Bear and Tug!
To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! She can't catch us all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the driveway, the canines they flew,
With a dumpster of junk, and Hunter too.

And then in a twinkling, I heard in the back
The chewing and gnawing of each member of the pack.
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
Down the hill, Hunter came with a bound.

He was dressed all in trash, from his nub to his paws,
But it shocked us when suddenly opened his jaws.
Now you could say that Matt and I were quite drunk,
But we swear what happened next isn't a big load of bunk.

"Now you listen, Mrs. Fisher," he said, "My Dear,
I'm sick of all these commands. They're queer.
Sit. Down. Wait and Out. Upchuck, crate up and heel.
I do all that you say 'cause that's part of our deal.
But I head you've been spreading this crap around.
My pals here tell me these commands are now all over town."

The stump of a bone he held tight in his teeth,
I hoped it was from a deer and not our neighbor, Steve.
But I put my worries over to the side,
As my rottweiler continued his diatribe.

"To boot, you get paid to teach this stuff."
And suddenly he was backed up by a chorus of "RUFFS!"
"Well, we want a cut. We deserve some too.
And if you don't, well, I've got my crew!"

His hackles were up, his chin in the air,
But his crew already looked tired and scared.
Their collars were preppy, their fur all coiffed.
And their noses were twitching as the smell of our dinner came in wafts.
Only Teddy Bear looked truly at home,
As he chewed on what was once a cellular phone.

"Hunter," Matt said, his voice full of reason.
"Have you noticed the time or the season?
Most of your friends are little and cold,
And even for you, this is crazy, truth be told."

"Puppy-wuppy," I added with a nod of my head,
Hoping to show they had nothing to dread.
"I love you and your crazy stunts,
And I promise not to let Daddy call you a dunce,
But I don't see the point of offering up my stash.
What would you do with a big wad of cash?"

"Cash?" he shouted with a bark.
"You two have completely missed the mark!
It's belly rubs we want and good things to eat,
And occasional kongs and hikes as a treat.
And if you throw in an old, outgrown Ugg,
We promise to barf away from the rug."

"Nub, you already get that,
plus the more than occasional snack of deer crap."
"Oh yeah," he replied as Tessa snarled, "What a jerk!"
"Hey guys, false alarm, Looks like we get all the perks!"

He sprang back to the dumpster, to his pack gave a howl,
And away they all ran, Tugger dragging a towel.
But we heard Moxie exclaim 'ere they scampered out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and I told you not to follow the rottie! Am I right?"

The End.

Thank you to all my clients whose dogs participated in this week's blog. For pics of Moxie, Tugger, and Teddy Bear, visit my website's testimonial page. And thanks to my readers and fans as well! Your emails and responses make this blog completely fun to write.

Merry Christmas!
Chris and Hunter

muttstoorder@gmail.com
http://www.muttstoorder.com

Look Ma! No Hands! learning to drive the porcelain bus hands-free

2010-12-15T23:04:00.000-05:00

In case you're new or you've forgotten during my long, arduous silence, please note that I have two kids, a husband, a business and countless relatives arriving from the far corners of the known and unknown universe very shortly for the holidays, not to mention a new and slightly unhealthy obsession with a word-game I downloaded to my kindle last week. I've just been swamped and distracted, so I offer my humblest apologies for being MIA and strive to entertain once again.

For the record, I won't be writing any funny diatribes on my incoming relatives because... Hello??? They read the blog! Or at least they claim to read it. And even if they don't and they're really just "blowing smoke up my vagina," as one of my more eloquent girlfriends said to me this weekend over cocktails, if I write about them, their ears will ring. This will be the one time they do read it, kicking off a chain of events resulting in the destruction of the world as we know it... so no thanks. As tempting as the myriad of jokes running through my mind about my oddly pieced together and gaudily constructed fraying American quilt of familial relations is... and yes, the jokes are many and varied and the temptation strong, I won't be telling any. Lips are zipped, locked, and key thrown away!

Instead, I plan to cover another subject this week... slightly safer given the impending airport arrivals, yet similar to the visiting family-thing in terms of its ability to cause upheaval... emesis. A.K.A. vomit, heave, eject, emit, expel, barf, disgorge, hurl (my personal favorite), puke, regurgitate, retch, spit up, throw up, and upchuck. I have a two year-old little boy with a sensitive gag reflex and a 3 year-old rottweiler who in my professional opinion suffers from pica among other things.

Well, he doesn't suffer... I suffer. He rather enjoys it. For those of you unaware, pica is a disorder in which the sufferer feels compelled to consume non-food objects. In humans, this condition can be very serious as in someone feeling compelled to eat pins or poisonous substances. In canines, it's called "being a g-ddamn dog." Hunter engages in pica and occasionally and more specifically coprophagia (dung-eating) as an extracurricular activity and will generally hoover down anything from socks that have fallen out of the laundry sorter to fecal matter of any origin strewn throughout our property including but not limited to his own. (Pause for your own gag reflex.) He's disgusting, but sadly typical. While most of my clients are horrified when they catch their dog engage in this pastime, I have to inform them that it's pretty normal for a dog as is the inevitable vomiting that occurs afterward.

There are many theories as to why dogs engage in this behavior and I could delineate them for you ad nauseam and offer my own opinion as to which ones hold water and which don't, but the truth is... who cares? The bottom line is that my dog just ate something gross and now he's thrown it up all over my oriental rug. At this point, the philosophical, psychological, and physical reasons behind his deer-shit snack are moot. I have a many-thousand dollar hand-loomed rug here being ruined by regurgitated crap! Eye on the ball, people, eye on the ball.

As for the two year-old, well things get more complicated. First of all, it is a normal stage of human development to eat and mouth non-food objects. When babies begin to explore the world through their five senses, taste holds its own. How red wooden blocks look, feel, smell, sound and taste is just part of the learning process... or in my daughter's case, how the seat on the airplane tastes. (Oh yeah- she licked an airplane seat. Seriously, there isn't enough Purell in the pipeline to address that one. Six years later it still makes me shudder.) Healthy children do grow beyond this stage as my son has done, and generally parents are very careful that children do not ingest anything that could make them sick.

It's rare my son is roaming the woods 100 feet ahead of me looking to snack on deer waste and rotten leaves, so he can later toss his ill-gotten cookies up all over my flokati. In his case it isn't pica or coprophagia that causes the vomiting epsiodes. It's coughing, crying, gagging, and sometimes hiccups that cause immediate and graphic disgorgement. He's barfed in at least three separate restaurants, four different cars, his crib, his big boy bed, the sofa, his blanky, my hands, my husband's hands, down my blouse, in my shoes, in the parking lot of our grocery store, and on half the rugs in my house. You name it, it's been puked on at the Fishers with one incredible and ridiculous exception...THE TOILET

Yup, my little man with the million dollar smile has never once in almost three years vomited into a toilet or a cleanable container of any kind. "Why?" you ask... I'll tell you why... Because he's not potty trained. If you can't sit on the porcelain bus, there's no way you can drive it.

So on Tuesday when J's post nasal drip caused him to literally lose his lunch all over his bed mid-diaper change, I started to daydream about the day when he would be potty trained and would then be able to run to a toilet or aim for a bucket when he feels the urge to purge. (Some women day dream about vacations in Rio de Janeiro with Robert Pattinson. I dream of precision digestive pyrotechnics in toddlers. Sad, but true.) And as I changed the sheets and got him cleaned up, it occurred to me that Hunter IS potty trained... well, house-trained anyway. He knows that he should not under any circumstances urinate or defecate in my house. He must hold it and ask to go outside. He doesn't exactly sit on the porcelain bus so much as lift his leg on it, but maybe that's enough to get behind the wheel a bit.

Hmmmm...

I put Julian down for a nap and start to map out the idea further as I threw his sheets into the washer. Clearly, vomiting is a reflex and not something we can control completely, but for the most part as adults we can control it enough to aim for a flush-able or at least scour-able place. If I can jump up from the table and run to the toilet, why can't Hunter jump up from my oriental rug and run for the tile floor? Of course, he can. In fact lately, I think he's been doing the opposite... jumping up from the tile and running to the Oriental Rug. Maybe he thinks the bile will blend into the pattern, or maybe he knows wool is stain resistant and thinks he's doing me a big favor. So I've established that I think is capable of making tile pizza instead of rug pizza. The question becomes how do I tell him what I want him to do.

Clicker trainers would tell you to shape the behavior. Wait until he vomits on the tile and then click while he's vomiting to signal he's doing the right thing. Then repeat until he's steadily vomiting on the tile. Um... Yuck.

Shock Collar People would have you press a button on a remote control and zap your dog while he pukes on the rug or other undesirable surface. Um... yeah, that's just mean.

Lure and Reward people (mostly me) would tell you to lure the dog onto the tile while he's puking and then give him a food treat when he gets there. Um... yeah we're back to yuck.

So here's what I've come up with. In the past when Hunter has been in trouble physically, he was still able to listen to my cues even though he was in extreme physical distress. In fact, telling him what to do actually seemed to alleviate some stress for him when he was really ill. So I've decided to teach Hunter a cue called "upchuck." Upchuck means for him to run to the nearest hard surface-- i.e. tile, wood, sidewalk, etc. I plan to teach it to him like a game. We'll play "upchuck" in every room of the house. I'll start in easy places and then gradually increase the difficulty level... like stand in a room with wall-to-wall carpeting so he has to figure out that he needs to leave the room.

While he's learning, I'll ignore any puking episodes completely. But in time, after he's become an Upchuck Master, I'll raise the bar by issuing the command mid-yak, well, pre-yak. Handling skills will be key here as this is where things could get sticky. 1) In order to effectively save my rugs, I'll need to be alert to the first sign of gagging and 2) I'll need to say the cue quickly and before actual barfing begins because if I'm late I'll be violating my 3rd grade teacher's #1 rule about throw-up...Make a Lake. Not a River.

She would shout this order down the hall after some nauseated child she sent streaking to the nurse's office. Her instructions to her 9 year-old charges meant that if the urge to purge became too strong, then one should stop, puke, then run. Make a lake. Not a river. Thank you Estelle Mindlin of Alpine Elementary School... a wise soul indeed.

I have no neat and sweet ending here because I haven't tried any of this yet, but with the exception of my clumsiness and Hunter's, I can't see how we could fail. I'll keep you posted.

"Upchuck" could overtake "Be Excused" as the single greatest command in our repertoire. Some great trainers train dogs for TV and movies. Some train them to do search-and-rescue or as cadaver dogs. Some run the Iditarod or train for bomb-sniffing. Not me. I'm a different breed of trainer. My dogs know how to behave at dinner parties and only ralph on hard clean-able surfaces. I may not be glamorous or cutting edge, but in my dining room wine flows like the Nile and my Oriental Rugs are spotless. The road to hell may be paved with good intentions, but who knew you could drive on it in a porcelain bus hands-free?

Cheers,

Chris

muttstoorder@gmail.com

http://www.muttstoorder.com

The Confession

2010-11-08T21:41:00.000-05:00

In the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit... Bless me, Readers, for I have sinned. God only knows how long it has been since my last confession, but my last blog was a week ago.

My sin
I have a confession to make: Hunter is not the rosy picture of calm, contented obedience that I portrayed him to be. In fact, lately, he's been quite a handful or maybe scandalous disaster would be a more apt description. I haven't told you any lies, per se, about him. He is a 3 1/2 year-old rottweiler. He is excellent with my children, and a friend to all whether they be dressed in UPS brown or wearing a leash and collar. And he is therapy certified. My come-lately lying is more a lie of omission than a total fabrication. I've been blabbering on about my love for my husband and my puppy clients and my road rage, but it's really just a mask to cover my inner turmoil about the horrors I'm about to reveal. Hunter has taken to running away... or at least amok outside my property lines. (audible gasp here)

Now the reasons behind my lie of omission should be abundantly clear to you as regular followers of my blog, but I'll make them plain anyway just in case...

I'M A DOG TRAINER, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE. I CAN'T HAVE A DOG WHO TERRORIZES THE NEIGHBORHOOD. IT'S EMBARRASSING, NOT TO MENTION POTENTIALLY CAREER DAMAGING AND A LIABILITY IN ALL KINDS OF OTHER WAYS. JESUS!!! HE COULD GET HIT BY A CAR, GET INTO A DOG FIGHT, BITE SOMEONE, DAMAGE PROPERTY, CRAP ON SOMEONE'S DOORSTEP!!!

Ok- so that's why I haven't been forthcoming. It's not an excuse, just a reason. You may be wondering why I've suddenly decided to come clean. What is the motivation for telling the truth at this moment? Did something I mentioned in my tirade actually come to fruition? Am I just preempting inevitable bad press?

DOG TRAINER'S DOG IN NEAR FATAL FIGHT WITH A CHEVY

Nah...

Sorry, nothing so sordid on the horizon. The sad truth of it is that I just wasn't sure how to explain myself or how to make it funny, especially since I was so locked in the complete humiliation of it without any kind of resolution. But all that has changed, and the change brings with it an impetus to confess my story.

The story
We live on five+ acres of property surrounded by woods to one side and behind the house, what was an abandoned house to the other side, and about 100 acres of hay fields in front. There has never been too much for my boys to get into. We deer-fenced three sides of our property and put post-and-rail along the front when we moved in. I actively trained my dogs not to cross the driveway or go through the post and rail. And for the last three years, Hunter has been incredibly reliable. I never worried.

Then a couple of months ago, the abandoned house next door was sold and underwent the beginning of a fairly in-depth renovation to both the structure and the landscape. All day every day, a steady stream of trucks, equipment and personnel paraded past my fence line. There were hammers and nail guns, chippers and chainsaws. Holes were dug and fresh fill dirt delivered. The guys doing the digging and hauling, chipping and nailing were all incredibly friendly. They introduced themselves to me and my husband. They did their quieter work during my son's nap. They threw sticks and toys to Hunter and fed him treats through the fence. They couldn't have been more congenial, and so it was, of course, only a matter of time before they ruined my life.

Within days, Hunter was deeply fascinated by the amount and variety of outdoor activity on the other side of the fence. Whenever he went out, he would invariably make his way over to the fence to sit and watch with what would become unbreakable concentration. It got to the point where he wouldn't hear me if I called him. I'd have to walk over and touch him to get his attention. And then he'd startle like I'd just interrupted his thoughts. The house next door was like TV to him, a TV that was always tuned to his favorite program. He was mesmerized, zoning out on it every day like a kid high on cartoon network.

Then one fateful day, the wind took a branch down smashing it through our fence. Within minutes of being let outside, Hunter detected the breach (or maybe he had heard it happen from inside and so asked to go out) and scrambled his way through it. He was finally able to truly investigate all the amazing goings-on next door that he'd witnessed and brooded over for all the past weeks. Having been suddenly immersed in his entertainment, able to not only look, but smell, taste and experience this new world in all it's glory, Hunter was euphoric. Imagine suddenly inhabiting the starring role, the hero, of your favorite movie or TV program, Pleasantville-style. The satisfaction and sense of wish fulfillment would be overwhelming, as it certainly was for Hunter. In just one trip to the other side of the rainbow, he was hooked. The high was too great. He became an instant junkie, rushing over there every change he got while the fence was down.

Naturally, I had the fence repaired as soon as possible in an attempt to control and restrict Hunter's movements. I also started accompanying him each and every time he went outside. I played games with him, issued commands, and dealt him treats hoping to keep him engaged with me instead of focused on the neighbors. For the most part, it worked. He stayed close to me outside, only stealing furtive glances at the smorgasbord of construction next door. When I went in, I took him with me. And for a few days, he went willingly, but this was not to last.

His curiosity, like a heroine jones, just kept building, crushing in on him. He started watching the neighbors through the windows while he was inside, getting his fix at a distance. He began to bark at things that went on, like when the old dumpster was hauled away and a new one delivered. His fur would bristle if I attempted to distract him or redirect his attention. His personality was deteriorating. Most of the time he was sullen, brightening only when he could watch what he couldn't have without interruption.

Then one Sunday morning, while I was out, Hunter went outside off-leash with Matt and the kids. Without even a backwards glance at his family, Hunter took off like a shot down our front lawn towards the post-and-rail fence-- a barrier he'd never once crossed. When he reached it with Matt hot on his heels and screaming for him to stop, he dropped to his belly, scrambled underneath it like a greased pig and triumphantly stood up on the other side. Not pausing to consider the rules, not to mention the trust, he'd just broken, Hunter immediately took off up the wrong side of our fence heading for the workmen and the construction equipment with a single-mindedness we had never seen in him before.

The workers were taken aback, frightened even, by the wild look in his eyes. They stopped working and froze in their places at what was once the low-key, happy-go-lucky and incredibly well-controlled dog from next door that had become a wild-eyed black beast barking and running full tilt away from his frantic owner directly towards them.

Matt, the only human in 15 acres not paralyzed by the site, jumped the fence and took off up the hill after the beast, abandoning his children on the driveway in hopes of preventing an altercation that could potentially ruin his wife's career, forfeit our homeowner's insurance, and subject us to a devastating lawsuit. He leaped over rocks and felled trees. Dodging holes and boulders, he hurtled through the woods with inhuman speed in pursuit of what had the potential to be his family's damnation.

The beast, for his part, was largely unimpressed by the reactions of the humans in his immediate vicinity, in that their collective horror made no impression on him at all, no dent in his amazingly thick skull.. He continued his wild charge, tongue lolling, nub of a tail shaking with pure pleasure. He bounded over obstacles never straying from his path or weakening in his resolve. Then he slowed to a trot as he approached the still frozen construction team, finally seeming to notice that no one else was sharing in his enthusiasm. A bewildered look crossed his face and then one of alarm as he realized Matt was closing in on him and very angry. Alarm turned to terror, and Hunter took off again fleeing his furious pursuer. He ran right through and almost over construction crew, straight across the width of their site and crossing yet another boundary as he headed into the next property. Matt, unable to put anymore distance between himself and his human charges still on his own driveway, fell behind. Acres now spanned the distance between himself and the fleeing beast.

Finally, the construction team snapped out of their paralysis to pick up the baton and join in the chase. They called Hunter by name even as they clambered after him through the woods to their opposite neighbor's front yard. All of the commotion on what is usually a placid and picturesque road drew the inhabitants of this undiscovered country property outside. Hunter, still frenzied from the chase, began to bark at them and the dog they let loose as they emerged through their own front door. The strange dog, at least stranger than my own, charged forth in defense of his territory barking in his own right.

Hunter stopped in his tracks. This rebuke, in his own language, from a stranger seemed to break through his madness. He quieted almost immediately. His face cleared before reason appeared again in his eyes, and apparently his thoughts. He began to retreat, slowly and cautiously at first, both aware of this new threat barking ferociously in front of him and at the same time keenly mindful of his original pursuers with their outstretched arms ready to grab him by the collar at the first opportunity. Choosing the safest of his three options, the one most obviously his only prayer for self-preservation, he headed for the construction crew. They caught him effortlessly. Laughing, whether out of relief or irony I couldn't say, they began to walk him back towards Matt and home, and away from the still howling Jack Russell Terrier.

By the time they got within 50 feet of Matt and the kids, Hunter was about three inches shorter and being dragged along. Clearly he was resisting his homecoming, as he now closely resembled a death row inmate shuffling reluctantly along in shackles to the room housing a long needle with his name on it rather than a faithful dog being returned to his loving family. Of course, it probably didn't help that Matt's expression and posture certainly molded to that of an all too eager executioner.

As the final and most critical stage of the prisoner transfer-- custody hand-off-- took place, the foreman flashed a wide toothy smile at Matt and said in lightly accented English, "Hey man, isn't your wife a dog trainer?"
"Yeah," was Matt's curt reply as he curled his fingers tightly around Hunter's leather collar.

"That's funny." the other man said laughing before turning away to head back to his work. His shoulders shook with the joke all the way back up the hill. Matt was shaking too at this point, although not from laughter.

It was at this time that I started receiving text messages like:
HUNTER RAN AWAY AGAIN.
THIS IS BAD. REALLY BAD.
GET HOME AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.
I NEED YOU. WE HAVE A HUGE PROBLEM.
YOUR DOG IS DEAD.

So of course, I am thinking the worst-- that he was hit by a car, that he went nuts and attacked someone, anything and everything that ends in bloodshed and me being responsible. Visions of Hunter in a bell tower wielding an AK-47 plagued my imagination, which much like my dog was running wild. I took deep breaths and drove way too fast. I tried to accept that I would have to shut down my business and stop writing my blog in disgrace. We would lose our insurance. If Hunter wasn't dead, he would probably be euthanized. How would I explain that to the kids? I mentally walked myself through the humiliating unraveling of a huge portion of my life and tried to remember that I was healthy and had beautiful healthy children and a great husband. And I like cats. Had them for years. Career-schmeer. I'd have more time to read. I won't die.

I should have remembered my dear husband's propensity for overstatement, especially when I pulled into our driveway and was not greeted by the police or news vans or animal control, or when I pulled into the garage to find an obviously happy and healthy rottweiler wiggling for me in his crate, or even when I walked into my house ashen-faced and breathless to be greeted by two beaming, re-cheeked children in sweatpants and dress-up clothes.
"Hi Mommy!"
"Hi, Mom. Hunter ran away. Daddy totally freaked out. It was really funny."

Matt's off-handed explanation was that he simply meant that he was going to kill Hunter and the huge problem was of course Hunter's fixation with the work next door. "Nothing you can't fix, right Hon?" he said with an earnest smile.

No, the second sin in my confession isn't that I murdered my husband. Like I said, I should have remembered his tendency towards exaggeration. Anyway, I listened to his story which I have just recounted for you omitting the interruptions and commentary from my children, including but not limited to:

"Bad doggy. Runned away." Thanks, J.
"Daddy jumped the fence like they do on NCIS. It was cool." Thanks, Alls.

After listening in silence, I tucked Julian in for a a nap, then sat down at my desk to think. I was blank. I had no idea how to address this from a training perspective. What would I tell a client? Something annoying like 100% management and containment first and foremost. Hmph!

So that's what we did. For three weeks, Hunter was not allowed off his leash AT ALL. It was a total pain. It's cold out. I have a two year-old. And I bought a house in the middle of no where so my dogs could run. What a waste. But after a week, I have to say we fell into a tolerable routine, a new normal, as I love to say. Hunter, who had at first seemed resentful like a teenager after being grounded, started to enjoy the attention. After two weeks, he stopped looking at the construction completely whether we were inside or out. So at the three week mark, I decided to press my luck.

I waited until dinnertime when Hunter was hungry and the guys next door had knocked off for the day. I took out a piece of salami and showed it to Hunter. Then I put it on the counter without giving him any. (Trainers call this show-and-stow.) Then I opened the back door and said, "Go Free!"

At first he hesitated. Surely, this was a trick. I repeated the command, and with what looked like a shrug, off he went into the night. I shut the door and turned to face my horrified family. "Close your mouths and learn something," I said with a smart-mouthed confidence I didn't feel. Then I opened the back door again and called Hunter to come. He did... like a bullet speeding through the cold darkness to our warm glowing kitchen. I gave him a piece of the salami slice and told him again, "Go Free!" And off he went again into the night. I repeated the exercise twice more. Then I called him in for the night and gave him dinner.

We've been working this sequence each night now for a week, and I've started adding in a morning or two as well, always before his breakfast and before the guys show up to work next door. The plan is to re-build his recall and boundary training over time, and then put "visiting the construction site" on a cue of it's own, so that I can send him up to visit the guys in a controlled way and as a reward for coming back as soon as I ask. If anyone has an idea about what to call that cue, please post or email me. All we've come up with so far is "Eat the workers!" Maybe that's not the best plan given my insurance paranoia.

Act of Contrition and Penance
Oh My Readers, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of readership, and the pains of Blogging Hell; but most of all because I love Thee, my Readers, Who art all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life.
Amen

If you have an idea for appropriate penance, by all means, email or post it!

(yes, I know I'm a terrible Catholic... sorry, Mom.)
Chris
muttstoorder@gmail.com
http://www.muttstoorder.com

Frustration Tolerance: what to do when the horse won't drink

2010-10-30T19:48:00.000-04:00

Maybe he prefers something stronger...nah.

There is an old adage my mother often uses when I'm feeling frustrated... You can bring a horse to water, but you can't make him drink.

And annoyingly enough, she's right. It's true. I can't make him drink, but if he's my horse I can shoot him. (It's actually legal to shoot your own horse.) And if I shot him, then I wouldn't have to shovel his shit anymore. Hmmmm... Never thought of that, did ya', Mom? (insert smug, petulant teenage facial expression here!)

Frustration is an inevitable part of life. We all feel it to some degree or another every day whether it's when we're sitting in traffic, arguing circuitously with a partner, or enduring dropped call after dropped call on a cell phone. Some people bear their frustration placidly with what appears to be inhuman grace and patience, while others fight and struggle with it, shouting and snapping at all obstacles in their path. Most of us, I think, vacillate between the two ends of the spectrum depending on our individual temperaments and the circumstances at hand.

For instance, I can be infinitely patient waiting for a dog's light bulb to flicker on when I'm teaching a new skill. I've been known to sit with a dog or a horse quietly for what feels like hours to their owner waiting for the moment when they realize what I'm asking and comply to the best of their current ability. I've never shot either or even fantasized about it. But if someone cuts me off in front of the Lincoln Tunnel at rush hour, I'm a ball of fiery hostility, loudly swearing and questioning the other driver's parentage and mental capacity. I've even put down my window to deliver the rebuke directly and make threatening gestures. (sorry, if that was you) My husband is a complete fireball in both of those situations, having lost his temper more than once on horseback and holding a leash, and in his youth even keeping a small Louisville slugger in his car just in case he needed to drive a point home to an errant driver. (No, he never did it, but he shook it at them often enough.) My mother, on the other hand, is a cloying vision of peace and harmony in either situation, having once famously declared to me while I shouted at her for driving 45 in a 65 MPH zone, "This is the speed I feel comfortable going and everyone will get over it." (No, she wasn't kidding.)

What makes some people annoyingly calm in traffic while others fly into a road rage? Why do some people revel in the idea of shooting their horse when he prefers not to drink while others are content to wait him out? Why do some dogs charge and bark at the end of their leash at every squirrel and car and strange dog they see while others trot quietly with their owners ignoring most things in their path? Why does my rottweiler sit quietly while I cook and eat, but my client's dog jumps up on the counter relentlessly during the same exercise?

The answer is that we all, animal and human alike, have different thresholds for tolerating frustration. The animal with the lowest threshold I've ever seen in person, other than Matt, is a bear. If you ever have the opportunity to watch a bear wrangler on a movie set, I highly recommend the experience. Bears are notoriously short-fused, and most wranglers have the scars or missing appendages to prove it. Watching them work is a humbling experience for anyone with a hot temper. Now dogs are different in that they are domesticated animals, so on the whole they have a higher threshold than my husband and bears. And much like humans, their threshold level is dictated by their genetics and by their experiences in life. In other words, just because my then boyfriend flew into a road rage every time someone was bold enough to move into his lane of traffic while he was flying down the highway at mock 2, didn't mean I had to sit there and endure the rage, consoling myself with some feeble excuse like, "oh. the poor thing can't help it. it's just how he is."

Quite the contrary, Matt and I met at age 19 and if you know me personally, you've heard me expound on many occasions that the adolescent male of any species is incredibly dangerous, unpredictable and self-destructive, as was my husband in a car at that age. Yeah, yeah yeah-- I've heard about the old-mother-protecting-her-young-being-the-most-dangerous bit, but that's different. In that situation, a mother has a motivation that is both comprehensible and predictable. A teenage boy's dangerous actions are neither. They run around in what are called bachelor packs in the animal world challenging each other and picking fights with other males they can't possibly win to get a shot at a female they neither deserve nor who returns their affection. It's amazing that any of them make it to maturity at all... my darling husband included.

Anyway, I didn't make excuses for my adolescent mate. Instead I chose to nurture his nature. I put my foot down and told him flatly that I was completely unimpressed and un-intimidated by his absurd and embarrassing display, and I would not drive with him if he acted like that again. (Ok- so if you read my last blog, you know that I also thought his temper was incredibly sexy, but the incomprehensible and contradictory thoughts and actions of the adolescent female is a subject for another blog.) After I delivered my ultimatum, I followed through. He was at first shocked and then annoyed, but later a little desperate when I wouldn't soften. What do you do when your beloved girlfriend refuses to drive with you? Ha! Give in, of course... drink the water, if you will, or at least try. So Matt promised to curb his temper and stop waving his bat at other drivers, and he tried. When he succeeded I praised him lavishly. When he failed, I wouldn't speak to him at all (which he HATED) or if it was remotely feasible, I'd get out of the car and start walking, making a ridiculous adolescent scene of my own. When I thought we'd be in a driving situation that was beyond the scope of his self-control like finding a parking space at the mall at Christmas, I drove as a preventative measure. Over time, his tolerance for errant and slow drivers increased, and his ability to control his temper improved. We got to the point where he was willing to drive in the middle lane at a somewhat reasonable and sustained speed and only pass when necessary without much in the way of drama. He even took the bat out of the car. Look at that! I never even had to shoot him.

So if you have a creature in your life with a low tolerance for frustration, don't throw your hands up in surrender and don't look for your shotgun. Instead nurture the nature. Figure out where their current threshold is and start there. Then make the rules and stick to them. Praise progress and ignore mistakes. Set them up for success, by not expecting too much all at once or putting them into situations you know they can't handle. And remember, animals are easier and quicker than husbands. After 15 years, Matt has no temper whatsoever when he drives, but it took Hunter only a couple of days to learn to lie down quietly in a corner while I cook and eat instead of jumping up on the counter.

Happy Halloween!
Chris
http://www.muttstoorder.com
muttstoorder@gmail.com

Everything Is Going To Be Okay: a love story

2010-10-17T15:42:00.000-04:00

Lately, I have a lot of new clients with puppies, and most are first-time dog owners. And although I dearly love all of my clients, even those of you who think you call/text me too much (you don’t. don’t worry), the first-timers are my favorites. Most are families with school age children that have decided that they are READY for a dog. The children are all out of diapers and in school. They live in homes with glorious backyards just waiting to be frolicked in by a sweet, adorable puppy. These families plan and prepare, get excited and await a puppy’s arrival with baited-breath. When the day finally arrives, they bring their new puppy home brimming with excitement and pride at the last piece to complete their family portrait--the piece that brings them closer together and completes the rhythm of their life in upper-middle class suburbia.

And then very quickly, reality sets in. The puppy is messy, loud, nippy and overwhelming. Instead of bringing the family closer together, they find themselves more isolated from each other. The kids are disappointed that the puppy doesn’t do what they expect and so lose interest quickly. Mom is left to do the dredge work of housebreaking, crate-training, etc all one her own while everyone else goes to work and school. And inevitably, the family ends up feeling somewhere in the vicinity of if I’d known it was going to be like this, I wouldn’t have done it.

This is the point I usually get a phone call from an exasperated new puppy mommy who feels like she’s drowning. I work hard to reassure a new puppy client that their feelings are normal and justified. I joke that God made puppies adorable so we wouldn’t kill them. And that the puppy’s sweet face and pathetic whine are designed to make you feel guilty. I promise that everything will be okay and set an appointment date, usually as soon as is humanly possible. And the whole time we’re talking, I wear a ridiculous grin on my face, not because anything is funny and not because I know for a fact that Norman Rockwell is a liar. But because when I hang up the phone, I am so reminded of what it was like for my husband and me to have our first baby, our story, if you will. It is exactly parallel—the expectations followed by the crushing reality, and then making it through the reality to find a new normal, better than the one before it.

I married Matt a week after my 23^rd birthday. We had been together all though college, engaged our junior year. While most of my college friends were off sewing career and other oats in the city, I had planned a wedding. Matt, with his ocean-blue eyes that made me blush whenever he turned them on me, was a young, hot-headed husband with big career aspirations and a lot of drive. I, of course, had very little professional direction whatsoever. I tried writing, publishing, graduate school, and volunteer work. I never made any money and was committed to and consumed by nothing except the love and passion I felt for my fiery blue-eyed husband. We were a volatile couple to say the least. Arguments were often very dramatic. I can’t remember how many times I ripped my wedding band from my finger and hurled it at him in a fury. Or how many times, he told me I made him crazy and then screeched out of our driveway speeding off furiously in his black Mercedes, only to return 15 minutes later as desperate to make up with me as I was with him. Many kisses through tears were exchanged while we looked for my wedding rings.

We probably would have continued down this passionate path for quite a few more years had nothing happened in the world to change us, but of course as everyone knows, something did happen—911. It was jarring for everyone, of course, but I felt such a special kind of fear watching the young wives and girlfriends of the Cantor-Fitzgerald traders wandering through Manhattan in designer sunglasses holding pictures of a missing fiancé or husband. I saw myself in them and my husband in the photos they distributed. And it changed me. Suddenly the focus wasn’t on my self-indulgent career dabbling or my cataclysmic love for Matt, it was on self-preservation, laying down roots and creating a family… a piece of ourselves to leave behind. I didn’t feel like I could live without him if something like that happened, and somehow a baby made me feel better. It did for him as well, and so we started trying and a little less than a year later I was pregnant with the baby who would be our daughter Alexandra.

The pregnancy was not exactly what I expected. My mom had recalled her own with me to be relatively smooth and typical. She found hamburgers to be revolting, but other than that, I was as she unhelpfully puts it, “an easy baby.” I, on the other hand, was inhumanly exhausted all the time and incredibly sick well into my second and third trimesters. In the wake of my body rebelling against expectations, my zeal for my husband diminished. I felt the same way, but I didn’t have to strength to express it through argument or any other medium. For the first time since we met, something had come between us. And Matt responded with a little distance of his own. He loved me, but I wasn’t what I used to be and he didn’t know how to help me.

My constant illness ended up putting me in the hospital around Christmas. We worried about the baby, but the doctors assured us that the baby was safe. I was the only one in any real danger. When they finally let me go home, they were planning to put an IV into my arm so I could drag it around and get some nutrients. I struggled daily and still I continued to lose more and more weight. And as I did, the distance between Matt and me grew steadily. He hovered at my side with agonizing helplessness in his eyes which were now more grey like steel than blue like the ocean. I looked away out of guilt for not being better at this and for putting him through this. He was losing me. This wonderful dream of starting a family had turned into a terrible nightmare.

I remember sitting, hollow-eyed, on yet another specialist’s exam table, skinny and sobbing with my husband slumping in helpless agony on a chair against the wall, and saying to the doctor, “if I’d known it was going to be like this, I wouldn’t have done it.” This doctor looked at us with incredible compassion in his eyes. Taking my hands in both of his, first looking at Matt and then at me, he promised that everything would be okay. He would give us the tools to fix this. And to our relief, he did.

I was put on a cocktail of drugs designed to rebuild the lining of my stomach, therefore allowing me to eat and digest again. He created a diet that would be easy for me to follow, and wrote a note to keep me home from work indefinitely. Within a couple of weeks, my weight stabilized. At every appointment, my doctors encouraged me to eat as much and as often as I could stand and reassured me that everything was going well with the baby. I regained my strength along with my sense of humor. Matt relaxed as he began to see a glimmer of the girl he married return to his wife’s now less hollow eyes. We finally allowed ourselves to get excited about the baby. We knew she was a girl now and played around with names. He brought home heaps of adorable clothes from boutiques in the city. We decorated her room and tentatively began to return to ourselves and our life together.

The night I finally went into labor, we had gone out to dinner and were happily snuggled up together on the sofa watching Bull Durham. I still smile whenever that movie comes on. Despite their recent break-up, I will always have a soft spot for the chemistry between Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins on display in that movie. It was their beginning and in a way ours as well. I felt a funny cramp shoot from my right side all the way around my belly to my left side. I remember distinctly thinking, “Now that’s different.” I disentangled myself from my husband’s warm strong embrace and walked back to our downstairs bathroom. And boom. My water broke all over the floor with a dramatic splash just like the movies.

Labor started in earnest at that moment. My contractions came every four minutes. We called my doctor, then our parents, and drove to hospital stopping at Dunkin Donuts along the way. He was thirsty and I was feeling very confident for some reason, but that was not to last. Despite my mother’s recollection to the contrary, labor turned out to be ridiculously painful. Between screaming fits, I shamelessly begged the nurses for any drug they had on hand. They were happy to oblige to get me to stop screaming and scaring the other patients. When they stuck the needle of narcotics in, I felt an instant change in the unbearable pain and as Matt says in my unbearable personality as well. I famously thanked the nurse saying, “Wow. This feels like college.”

Eventually, the drugs wore off and I was back to being unbearable. There was a point while waiting for the epidural-man, better known as the anesthesiologist, when I kicked Matt out with a ferocious snarl because he tried to coax me to breathe slowly to cope with the pain. In a twisted parallel to our former passion-filled arguing, rage surfaced in his voice as he threatened to actually leave, but I saw the pain and conflict in his grey eyes and backed down before he could follow through on his threat. Of course, I didn’t want him to leave. I was just in pain. And of course, he didn’t want to leave me, but he was feeling helpless again and I had harshly rejected his attempt to support me. Then the anesthesiologist came in and after holding still for 20 minutes while he stabbed a needle into my spine, the pain fled and relief flooded my entire body. With it came my personality and sense of humor. I apologized to my labor nurse and my husband. Both readily forgave my behavior. And although he held me and stayed with me, Matt’s grey eyes retained a little of their hard edge as I remained isolated from him.

After all, this was my gig. He could be there, but when it comes down to labor and delivery, it’s all mommy all the way around. It was as strange for me to be so totally isolated as it was for him to be so helpless. Everything happening was completely beyond our control despite all our planning and excitement, despite our choice to have this baby in the first place. And it had been that way all along, but no one ever mentions that part. Having a baby is supposed to be something you do together, but in the end it is also something that separates you. I’m the one that has to do this. He bears witness. The tie that binds you together gets stressed and stretched beyond what you ever thought it could bear. And if you make it through, you’ll find not only that the tie is in tact, but it is also more flexible and pliable under stress, easily conforming to the pressures of life that inevitably accompany the process of raising a family.

Allie was delivered easily and perfectly on June 28^th, 2003. And I recovered very quickly for all intents and purposes, but things were awkward at home. I was so preoccupied with the baby’s round-the-clock needs. Matt was helpful and very capable with the baby, as he annoyingly is with everything. And we both loved her dearly, but the rhythm of our life remained unsettled between the sleep-deprivation, the worrying that we’re doing it right, her inevitable colic, the changes in my body, and the list goes on. Would we ever be ourselves again? Would this desperately loved little creature ever not stand between us? How strong was our bond to each other that we could handle all of this and still be who we were before? Having a baby and caring for one made me give up so much of what made me myself—my flighty work, my constant stream of jokes both verbal and practical, the passionate arguing that led to fierce re-commitment. I wondered if he could remain in love with someone he hardly recognized. Is this who and what I was now? Is this all I’m going to be?

I remembered back to my specialist’s words: everything is going to be okay. Through the colic and the sleepless nights and the near-constant worrying, I hung onto the doctor’s words and hoped that Matt would too. After a few months, the pressure began to ease up. My caring for the baby was not as all-consuming any more. I got better at it and more natural. I could plan activities around her schedule. And she started sleeping through the night, so most evenings after 7:30, I was off-duty. Matt and I started having dates again. Our life took on a new rhythm, a new normal. We didn’t fight anymore like we used to. We both knew how scary and awful that would be for a child, but I wasn’t sure if the passion could resurface for us in other, less dramatic ways, or if he even still felt that way about me.

One night, when we were out to dinner alone, having left the baby with my mom, I asked him, “are we okay?” He stared at his wine glass for a long time in silence. Matt was always silent when he didn’t want to answer an uncomfortable question. I began to get nervous about what his response could be. I looked away and waited. Finally, as I was feeling myself about to cry, he looked back up at me, “This is the happiest I have ever been. I love you and I love her more than I ever thought I could love anyone. Of course, we’re ok.” I began to cry not out of fear or sadness, but out of relief. And when I looked back at him, smiling through my tears, I saw his eyes were the clearest ocean blue they’d ever been and filled with the same watery happiness as my own.

When I get that desperate phone call from a new puppy owner, I smile as the memory of my story floods my mind. It is my greatest pleasure to play the role of my specialist and reassure my new clients that everything is going to be okay and that I will give them the tools to get through this. Having a new puppy is very much like having a baby. You’re filled with expectations, hopes and dreams. And you feel isolated and overwhelmed when the reality of puppy-ownership sets in. As a dog trainer, it’s my job to help my clients find a new normal, support them through the process of integrating a puppy into their life, and in the most basic way help to create a new family. So it isn’t that I don’t love my client whose dog-aggressive dog learned to make a new friend, or when I hear that my separation-anxiety clients are able to leave their dog for an hour, I’m not elated. I am always so profoundly proud of the progress they make and the happy ending to their stories I help provide. But it is for my own selfish reasons that I love my puppy clients best. They let me relive the love story of my life, the creation of my family, as I help them create theirs.

Chris
http://www.muttstoorder.com
muttstoorder@gmail.com

If a Bear Craps in the Woods, Does He Use Toilet Paper?

2010-10-08T23:30:00.000-04:00

Crapping Charmin Bears

Tuesday afternoon, Hunter and I took advantage of a more peaceful moment. Allie, of course, was at school and Julian was actually back at preschool for a special toddler art class. The beds were made and dinner was planned. With nothing else to do, we realized we'd better take advantage of this rare, yet blissful, 35 minutes of freedom. Well, at least, I realized it and Hunter, being the good-natured dog that he is, went along for the ride.
I decided to try out a new trail for walking. Of course, I've been to the park by my house nothing short of a million times and I'd seen people walk their dogs past its playground and disappear into the woods at least a third of those visits, but I never knew where they went. I was usually laden-down with children and without a willing canine companion, so I have never been able to satisfy my curiosity and take a peek over the proverbial and literal hedge.

Tuesday was different. Tuesday I had only a willing canine, so off we went. When we arrived, the ground was scattered with leaves and everything was wet from the that good soaking rain we'd had the previous few days. It was a veritable heaven to a dog. When the ground is wet, the scents covering it are amplified. That's also thought to be one of the chief reasons a dog's nose is wet. It helps to increase their olfactory sense. Hunter looked at me for the "go sniff" cue and when given quickly put his nose to the ground, nub of his tail wiggling and began to trot forward, stopping only to inhale one particular odor or another more deeply or to lift his left and leave his own odor for some other dog to note later. I let him do as he pleased for the most part and enjoyed the silence.

At home, Hunter's caninety (a made-up word akin to humanity but referring to a dog) gets glossed over and forgotten much of the time. I, without thinking, expect him to play tolerant nursemaid to my, at times, intolerable children, ignore all dropped food, refrain from sniffing the crotches of my guests and babysitters, and above all else, NEVER urinate in my house. I'm even slightly annoyed when he falls ill and vomits on my clean hardwood floors. I even clean his paws or ask him to wipe them on a door mat before letting him come in out of the rain. For all intents and purposes, I treat and expect Hunter behave more like a person living in my house than a dog.

This process of treating an animal like a human has a name. It's called anthropomorphism (and yes, it's nearly impossible to say without practice). Anthropomorphism is superficially, or perhaps after my last paragraph hypocritcally, frowned upon by most in my profession, myself included. I don't allow my students to dress their dogs in little outfits when we work together. I temper their expectations of behavior and reprove them for assigning human emotions to their dogs like guilt and remorse or traits like being stubborn or knowing better.

Dogs do not know better than to steal food from the garbage. And they don't feel guilty when you catch them in the act. And they're not doing it over and over again to spite you or because they're stubborn. Those are all HUMAN traits and emotions, not canine ones. Dogs live in the moment, and their behavior is usually dictated by what's happening in that moment of by what they perceive to be the consequences of their current behavior. So your dog went into the garbage because he smelled something of interest to him. When you caught him eating the leftovers, he didn't look guilty, but rather submissive. You looked angry and imposing so in response he trued to look smaller and lesser to appease you. He went back to the garbage the next day because what he ate from it yesterday tasted good, so he figured it might taste good again today. And he's not stubborn. He either doesn't get why you keep putting tasty things in the garbage and then leave the garbage open and available for him unless you wanted him to eat it, or he likes what he's finding so much that it's worth enduring your wrath to get it. Apparently, last night's chicken pot pie trumps angry owner nine times out of ten.

In my defense as a hypocritcal dog trainer, I have painstakingly socialized and trained Hunter to meet my anthropomorphic expectations. I didn't expect him to be this way as an 8-week old puppy, right out of the box, no assembly required. I've spent 3 1/2 years building this dog from the ground up to be my personal version of a four-legged gentleman, but every so often I force myself to put aside my expectations for a human in a dog suit. I remember he's a dog and every so often he needs a moment to act like it.. Tuesday, during Julian's 45 minute art class, was that moment. So as we entered the woods, I begrudgingly let Hunter dart around alternately sniffing and peeing. Sometimes he yanked me about and other times he remembered there was something holding onto the other end of the leash.

The trail behind the playground, as it turns out, is part of an elaborate trail system leading to patriot's path. And pretty soon as we came to T's and forks, we found ourselves making choices which way to go bringing us deeper and deeper into the woods. Eventually, I unclipped Hunter's leash and let him go be a dog. He stayed pretty close, but became very relaxed with his now larger-than-six-foot diameter of space to explore. And I went from begrudging my dour-legged gentleman his doggy time to actually enjoying it. I was content to watch in silence, walking along the path behind him until we came across something large in the path in front of us. No, it was not a bear, but rather evidence that one had very recently been on this path, so recently in fact that steam still rose from what it left behind and there were fresh prints leading up the trail in front of us.

I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up and my rbeath catch in my throat. Hunter froze as well, a front paw lifted and his hackles (essentially the hair on the back of his neck) were raised as well. He sniffed the air and then decidedly put down his hackles and dropped his head to the ground. He began sniffing and then trotted along the path again in his loose and happy-go-lucky way. I felt a rush of relief as he assumed his pre-bear-crap posture and began to laugh aloud as I followed him.

Suddenly instead of being frightened to death and picturing myself as that politician from Washington state who was mauled in his own driveway by a bear earlier in the week, I was remembering those God-awful Charmin commercials in which cartoon bears are all in a group complaining about pieces of toilet paper stuck to their butts after they dump in the woods. Cruising along placidly behind Hunter, I began to wonder if we would come across a bear angry with the quality of toilet paper on Patriot's Path.

What a stupid piece of advertising-- to take a bear, one of North America's most dangerous predators and stick bits of toilet paper to its ass. I mean someone at Charmin not only authorized an advertising company to make these commercials, but they paid for their production, and clearly thought they were brilliant for doing so. I'm not even sure what they're supposed to mean to me as a consumer and user of toilet paper. I mean, are they suggesting I have a huge, hairy ass? Or that I should be worried when I walk around bare-assed that other people will comment on the obvious low-quality of my toilet paper? I assume bears would have to wipe with considerably more force and enthusiasm than the average human, and therefore require a tougher paper product with more wiping power if you will. But personally, I've always found Charmin to be too plush and powdery. It's also perfumed, so maybe the company uses the bears to subconsciously influence the consumer to believe that their product is tougher than it appears to be. Tough enough to be used by bears in the forest. Or maybe they're telling us that despite the unfortunate mauling of City Councilman John Chelminiak of Washington State, bears are really soft, human-like creatures that often debate the merits of personal hygiene products out in the field, much the way Masengill seems to want you to think that woman discuss feminine hygiene products at lunch or on the beach. It's just another ridiculous case of misleading advertising, this time using an anthropomorphic bit to try to convince us that animals are really just humans in fuzzy suits. Maybe if Councilman Chelminiak had a roll of toilet paper in his jacket, he could have spared a few squares to the chaffed and disgruntled bear, perhaps preventing the deep scarring of his face and loss of his eye.

Lost in my shitting Charmin bear reverie, I was startled to bump hard into Hunter's ass as he blocked my way forward on the trail. He was standing up at his full height, body stiff, hackles up and nostrils flaring. His muzzle was wrinkled and pulled back to reveal his formidable teeth. And a low growl emanated from his belly. I stood stock still, holding my breath. The forest around us was very quiet. The rain falling softly on the leaves was the only sound aside form Hunter's growl.

A stray wish for toilet paper popped into my head, but I suppressed my nervous laughter and stood quietly behind my dog waiting... And then Hunter settled and turn back to me. I snapped on his leash and the two of us, now side-by-side, walked quickly back through the woods deftly navigating our previous twists and turns. There was no sniffing or marking this time, and no thinking about absurd anthropomorphic commercials. We just walked. After a few minutes, we were back at our car. I let my full breath out for the first time since we turned back on the path and Hunter shook from head to toe. Then I smiled at him and scratched his ears. "Thanks, Buddy," I said. "Good boy."

We loaded into our car and headed to preschool. I was relieved to say the least, and very grateful that my dog is a dog. He may like to eat deer poop on occasion and steal tissues from the wastepaper baskets. He may never feel guilty or know better. And he certainly will never see the merits of having his muddy paws cleaned at the door, but his sense of smell is uncanny. His hearing is unmatched and his perception of danger unparalleled. He's a dog. And it was his true nature, not his human-imposed persona that I vainly showcase for clients and guests, that saved us in the woods on Tuesday.

Hunter caught the scent and heard the sounds of the bear. He held us still until the danger had passed. And he sounded the all-clear, signaling it was safe to turn and go back to the car. And I was and still am grateful for his doing so.

SO you may have a little dog with a close full of designer doggy clothes and a Louis Vuitton carrier. Or you may have a big oaf of a dog with a collection of bandannas and a set of antlers for the family Christmas photo. And despite my urging, you may still whine at your dog about his stubborn or spiteful streak or take satisfaction in the guilty look you see on his face when you catch him in the act. But once in a while, remember to let your dog just be a dog... because no matter what you see on TV, when a bear craps in the woods, don't look for a roll of toilet paper, look to your dog. He might just save your ass.

A quick shout out to Hunter: Congratulations on passing the ultimate in anthropomorphic tests! He's now a certified therapy dog. WOO HOO!!

Chris
http://www.muttstoorder.com
muttstoorder@gmail.com

Surviving the Great Flood

2010-10-01T14:44:00.000-04:00


A heli-rescue dog jumping from a helicopter into the ocean to save people.

The tag line on my personal email reads: perpetually walking the fine line between over and should be committed. This week that line was often slippery and wet, thwarting my balance on more than one occasion, not only in a physical sense due to the monsoon raging outside my window, but also from the mental deluge of responsibilities, goals, and commitments. It seems that everything is coming together at once-- Hunter's therapy test, the rush of fall clients, back-to-school nights, my husband's travel schedule, class teas and coffees, and fall planting and harvesting. I guess it's true-- when it rains, it pours.

Not surprisingly my harrowing week of professional, marital and maternal obligations has pushed my blog entry into the lowest position on the totem pole of my to do list. Through the parents tea for Julian's class that I hosted in my kitchen this morning and the one I'm planning for Allie's, the PAWS FOR PEOPLE workshop I attended Wednesday night, multiple client appointments and corresponding paperwork, and the day I spent planting and potting mum and moving firewood, the blog's subject was, however, obliquely in my thoughts as I ducked between the raindrops and in and out of obligations.

In a way, I'm grateful for the downpour. It was a dry, hot summer mostly devoid of clients, school activities or a schedule of any kind. We spent our summer on the sand in the blazing sun with not a thought or a plan among us beyond our running frisbee competition. By Labor Day, the heat was starting to get to me, and I found myself thirsting for order and intellectual stimulation. Now it's October and I've gone from the parched feeling I had at the beginning of September to feeling like I've just spent a week in Guantanamo Bay being water-boarded for carpool information.

In the middle of all this, I have a novel, or at least a long and involved story, stuck in my head that preoccupies me on the drive to and from school each day, on the stair machine at the gym, and at midnight when I should be an hour or two into my required eight. For those of you who don't write, having a story stuck in your head is a lot like having a song stuck in your head. Sometimes you happily hum it while you go through your day. Other times it makes you feel distracted and edgy. And you feel sick with it. It's like a leaking faucet in the kitchen.... If only that plumber would call back and fix it, the noise wouldn't keep you up at night. If only I could get those two characters out onto the paper, they'd leave me alone. I email and text myself details of their story throughout the day, but it's only like tightening the handle of that leaky faucet. The drip stops for the moment, but soon the water builds up again... DRIP... DRIP...DRIP...

Tuesday, I even tried crying on my husband's shoulder, when I was supposed to be watching the filets on the grill that I was drowning. I need a laptop, an office of my own (because I keep my work stuff in the living room, my mom stuff in the kitchen, and my computer in the library downstairs), and a goddamn assistant. He smiled at me in that annoying way all husbands do when their wives have a major meltdown and said, "Hon, you're like a bag of cats. Just relax."

Well, all I remember after that was the room going white and then I blacked out. According to Matt, steam blew out of my ears and then as Bill Cosby once said of his own wife, my head split in two, the skin peeled back from my face, and fire shot out of my eye sockets burning a hole through his stomach. I allegedly had what Mr. Cosby described in his stand-up special entitled, Bill Cosby: Himself, as a conniption.

For my male readers, you may be sitting there scratching one part of your anatomy or another and wondering, "What?" To add to your bewilderment, please note that your female counterparts are probably all nodding their heads in agreement or covering their mouths in incredulity at Matt's error in judgment.

Now, I was absolutely behaving like a bag of cats.OK-STOP HERE. Visualize putting ten live cats into a duffel bag and zip it closed. What does that bag look and sound like? Yup, that was me, but now keeping the image of the duffel-bag cats in your head, command the bag and its inhabitants to relax... did it work? (Can't use dogs for that one. If I put Hunter into a bag with his pals, they'd probably all lick their crotches and fall asleep. DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME. It's only a metaphor.)

So I had my alleged conniption, supposedly quoting Jack Nicholson in As Good As It Gets at least twice-- I'm drowning here and you're describing the water. In the end, I allegedly managed to wear myself out screaming and cursing enough to pour myself a pilsner of Sam Adams Octoberfest and get the steaks off the grill before they resembled shoes more than dinner. And because cats don't like water or beer, Matt changed his tact. He poured me a second and opened the bag, letting the cats out one at a time while we ate.

We worked through my schedule conflicts by repositioning my babysitter and calling my mother-in-law in as a back-up. He also suggested I create an office for myself in the family room where I could be in the middle of everything, so I can stop running all over our house like a squirrel storing office supplies and client information for the winter. He even carted books and dusted furniture to accommodate. As for the novel leaking from my head, Matt's recommendation was to keep jotting things down and texting myself for the time being. Winter will be here before we know it, leaving me somewhat housebound with plenty of opportunity to write. By the time we had cleaned up the dishes and were making coffee, I was feeling better... maybe still shivering and wet, but no longer drowning in a sea of requirement. The flood waters had begun to recede.

Flooding, interestingly enough, does not just refer to an overflow of water or obligations and tears. It is also a therapeutic treatment of sorts and is sometimes referred to as response prevention. It is used mainly in cases of extreme fear or phobias in humans and dogs. You have a dog that is terrified of the water. She absolutely won't swim, paces and barks frantically by the pool or on the dock while you swim. You decide you're going to get her over it. You pick up your dog and carry her shaking, terrified, and struggling against you into the water. You won't let her escape, but you won't let her drown either. You are preventing her from responding to her overwhelming fear of the water. Because you are holding her, your dog is experiencing being in the water without the danger of actually drowning. As soon as she realizes she's safe, the fear will go away, right?

Well, that's the general idea.

It's also the general idea behind Matt smiling and telling me to relax when I'm feeling completely overwhelmed by life. He's standing in the kitchen, cool as a cucumber, trying to prevent my response to feeling overwhelmed-- crying, whining, wanting to buy things and hire people. In his mind, once I realize that it's no big deal to host a tea, see some clients, attend a workshop, write a story and a blog-- I'll calm down and get over it. And isn't that what every hungry husband and swimming dog owner wants? For the bitch to get over it?

Maybe so, but did response prevention do anything to change my feeling of being overwhelmed or my behavior in response as dictated by that feeling? Sure did. It made it worse. I went from crying, whining and trying to spend money (also known as retail therapy) to allegedly having my skull split open and fire shoot out of my eyes. Crying, whining and shopping are the ways I mitigate negative feelings. By preventing me from using those tools, Matt deprived me of my coping mechanisms. Having no coping skills is in itself extremely frightening and overwhelming. Rather than calm down, my feelings escalated, and I exploded... allegedly. See? And you thought he was just being a guy.

In the case of the dog who is afraid to swim, her fear is likely to escalate as well after being flooded by her owner. She might even begin to mistrust her owner after that experience, redirecting some of her fear towards him rather than just the water, just as I reportedly became angry with Matt instead of just my situation after he tried a similar strategy.

So what does work? Well, Matt's second idea about systematically letting my cats out of the bag and helping identifying each one and an appropriate solution worked really well. Instead of being overwhelmed with anxiety about a whole jumble of issues, we broke it down into smaller more digestible parts. We worked through each one-- desk and filing cabinets in the family room, babysitter hours to cover my meeting and appointments, etc. Instead of preventing my response but leaving me in the middle of the flood, he jumped into the water with me and gave me new tools for coping. With new tools in place, the anxiety evaporated.

As for our water-fearing dog, putting her in the pool and telling her to relax is not a great plan. It doesn't identify her fear in a specific way. We assumed she's afraid of drowning, but what if that's not it? What if she's afraid because the lake water is murky and she can't see the bottom? Or maybe she's afraid because she isn't sure how to get out of the pool once she gets in. Unfortunately, you can't just ask her. So here's what you do instead... break the process of swimming down into smaller steps and reward your dog for trying. When she comes close to the edge of the pool, toss her a treat and tell her she's a good girl. If you do that a few times, she'll keep coming back to the edge of the pool for more. Another day, she might sit by the pool quietly waiting for you to toss treats. Do it. Look at that, you just eliminated the barking and pacing. Your dog is no longer afraid when you swim or when she's close to the water. Over time she might offer you more by leaning over the pool or dipping a paw. Reward and praise these things too. No, she's not swimming yet, but she's getting there. And you are helping her mitigate her fears one at a time at a pace at which she's comfortable without taking away her own coping mechanisms- like running away or barking when she's overwhelmed. She can still do those things. You're just rewarding her when she isn't. This will lead her to trust you, so that eventually she will try to enter the water and you can reward her then as well.

The systematic breakdown of a person or a dog's fear is far more effective than flooding or response prevention. Instead of just waiting for me to stop drowning and start swimming while he watched calmly from the shores of self-assurance, Matt jumped in the water with me and gave me advice on how to swim and in which direction. And look at me... I made it to Friday, still in once piece. The next time I feel overwhelmed, I won't hesitate to go to him for help. I might shop too, but you can't teach an old bitch new tricks... and in the immortal words of Rachael Greene on Friends, "I-don't-need-a-job-I-don't-need-my-dad- I-have-new-boots boots!" In my case, they might be Jimmy Choo Wellies, but boots are boots and always a good idea.

Try to stay afloat this weekend!
Chris

http://www.muttstoorder.com
muttstoorder@gmail.com

The Three Year Itch

2010-09-24T11:25:00.000-04:00

Photo by JS Wender LA Times March 9, 2008

I have always described Hunter as "the original up your butt dog" because it is his sole purpose in life to follow me around, hot on my heels, dogging my every step whether I'm making beds, working on the computer, or doing laundry. When I stop short in the hallway with a basket full of laundry-- BOOM! He crashes right into my butt... hence the title, "original up your butt-dog."

Sometimes this habit is annoying like when I'm blow-drying my hair (a long and arduous task involving tourmaline, multi-sized round brushes, and salon products) and take a step back from the mirror to examine my coiffure (yes, for those of you that know me I don't always wear a baseball cap) only to hurt myself tripping over his sleeping form six inches behind me. It is equally irritating when he chooses to lie down in front of the stove while I'm cooking dinner or in front of the dishwasher while I'm trying to load or unload it. When I'm working in the garden and dig a hole for a new shrub of flower, he'll drop his ball into the hole and look at me brightly, confident that he just helped me out enormously. After all, why would anyone dig a hole if it's not for burying treasures? Hunter even follows me to the bathroom. When I don't let him in, he lies down outside the door and waits for me with his sidekick, my two year-old son who's main contribution is to stand guard with Hunter and yell "Mommy pee pee" at the top of his lungs. Privacy and personal space are not luxuries I enjoy often.

As you read this, you might think this behavior is funny or even cute. He's like my personal hairy, black groupie, faithfully following me and my band of little humans while we tour through life. He may not have Kate Hudson's on-screen sparkle, but he'd definitely make a terrific band-aid. What he lacks in blond, he makes up for in determination.

Truth be known, this is my fault. I taught Hunter to be like this. When he was a puppy, I took him everywhere with me, played with and trained him incessantly, even hand-fed him his meals when I wasn't loading them into unique doggie puzzle toys. I also protected him from my impulsive albeit well-intended children and their friends as well as the crazy neighborhood dogs that threatened him when we walked past their houses. All good and interesting things in his life came from me from the time he was eight weeks old. Because of that, he is bonded very deeply to me. His groupie existence is a testament to that bond. It is why he walks so well on a leash and listens to me without one. The tether between us is not made of nylon or leather, but rather love, time, and experience. It's our psychological connection that keeps him close whether we're in the house or out walking. If we were a couple, I'd say our marriage is not held together by a government issued piece of paper, but rather by our love and commitment. Like Oprah and Steadman and Goldie and Kurt, we are above conventional ties.

I built this connection and it has served me very well but after three years, I'd grown complacent. For the past few months, I had stopped appreciating Hunter's attentiveness. Life's stresses had gotten to me. I have two kids, a husband, and a small business. I'm room parent at two different schools this year. Child-bearing now behind me, I'd gone back to the gym. Suddenly my eight-minute mile and developing six-pack had become far more important to me than my dog's perfect recall and down stay. I had begun to ignore Hunter much of the time, and found myself snapping at him or rolling my eyes when he followed me around the house. I even started talking to Matt about getting a puppy-- maybe not another rottie, maybe something different, smaller.(I can hear you all saying, " AWWWWWW," but that's because you probably get to pee without an audience once in a while, so don't be so judgmental.)

Hunter, for his part, had begun to blow me off too. He started choosing not to come when I called or just coming slowly on his own timetable. In the house, he'd skulk off to eat trash from the waste paper baskets instead of sticking close to me. He'd even gone back to his old habit of dung-eating, which of course, causes horrific breath and makes him utterly repellent. His offensive odor and total lack of interest in me had put even more distance between us.

Our relationship was strained more than ever. Not only were we no longer having any fun together, but we were actually showing signs of resentment and disillusionment-- me with my adulterous fantasy tail-chasing and him with his less than attractive potty-mouth and poor listening skills. Our relationship was banging on the rocks, now resembling more Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins, than Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell. Without even a cameo by Marilyn Monroe, Hunter and I had fallen victim to the three year itch.. until a wonderful thing happened.

Without considering the state of our relationship, I signed us up to take the Paws for People Therapy Test. All of my dogs get certified by the age of four, and I had always planned to continue that tradition with Hunter. I filled out the application, wrote my check, and mailed in the whole shebang. Then I started planning a series of outings so that the two of us could sharpen up our social skills before the test. We went to the park, the grocery store, PetSmart, and Maple Street in Morristown where all the Seeing Eye dogs hang out. I started taking him with me for client appointments and training and playing with him every day. I'd forgotten all the silly tricks I taught him and how much he liked to tug. I was once again amazed at how good he was with puppies and timid dogs, always putting on pressure and taking it away until they were comfortable. A couple of the seeing eye trainers even remarked to me, "Nice dog."

Hunter is following me around again. The waste paper baskets are safe and there have been no incidents of dung-eating for weeks. Not only am I not snapping at him when he bumps in to me in the hallway or blocks the dishwasher, but I'm laughing at him and inviting him to follow me wherever I go. Our relationship seems to be on the mend. I'm no longer looking for a new dog, but instead have been mentioning to Matt that Hunter and I might want a baby... a new rottie puppy to keep us busy next year when Julian goes to preschool.

Sometimes when you find your relationship, whether it's with your dog, your partner or your best friend, in a rut, you need to make an effort. Try something new. Plan some dates. Set a goal. Take a class together. Don't look to the horizon for something more exciting because as Howard Stern once said. "No matter how good looking she is, somebody somewhere is sick of her shit." It isn't that we don't all get itchy sometimes, and that the urge to scratch that itch isn't real. Maybe it's just that if you scratch your itch by getting a new dog, a new friend, a new love, there are no guarantees that you won't get itchy again down the road. Getting a sheltie would have only delayed my problems, not solved them. Eventually, I would get sick of the barking and the hair and start missing the good old days with my quiet, short-haired rottweiler.

Hunter and I will be, in effect, renewing our vows as owner and dog in that therapy test on October 1st. We are nervous and excited. As a tribute to our weathering of the storm and in celebration of our new goal, we have written a version of the Pina Coloda song describing our journey:

I was tired of my rottie

We'd been together too long

Like a worn out old chew toy

Whose squeaker is gone.

So while he lay there sleeping

I logged onto the net

And on a dog rescue's website

There was this ad for a pet

If you hate tiny chihuahuas

And pooping out in the rain

If you're into pet therapy

If you have gas to blame

If you like bacon bits at midnight

On the couch when it's late

I'm the dog that you've looked for

Let me lick your dinner plate.

I didn't think about my rottie

I know that sounds kind of mean

But me and my big puppy

Had fallen into the same old dull routine

So I rolled up the paper

Hit myself on the nose

Then I sent back an email

Here's how it goes

Yes, I hate tiny chihuahuas

And walking out in the rain

I'm not much into dog sports

I am into fun and games

I've got to pet you by tomorrow noon

And cut through all this restraint

At a store called PECTO

Where we'll pick out your crate.

So I waited with high hopes

He trotted into the place

I knew his mug in an instant

I knew his tail's funky shake

It was my own burly puppy

And he licked my Jimmy Choos

Then we tugged for a moment

And I said, "I never knew..."

That you hate tiny chihuahuas

And walking out in the rain

And the feel of a belly rub

And the therapy game

If you like bacon bits at midnight

on the couch when it's late

You're the rottie I've looked for

I'll let you like the dinner plates.

(repeat chorus twice and fade out)

For original song click here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HohpvGeLw70

Have a pina coloda weekend!

Chris

http://www.muttstoorder.com

muttstoorder@gmail.com

What Goes In Must Come Out-- It's the law... Among Others

2010-09-17T10:31:00.000-04:00

What comes out of Hunter...

This week my son learned to climb INTO his crib... with my help. I first drop the side. I then act as spotter while he climbs up using the rail. Then he gets his feet onto the mattress before straddling the side itself and finally rolling off into the crib. He's also very diligently working on the opposite feat of climbing out. This one is a bit trickier and requires my hands-on assistance while he learns to balance himself and change his grip as needed during his descent. He's quite pleased with his Everest-like accomplishment, and so we practice in the late afternoon on an almost daily basis now.

If you are anything like my daughter, you're sitting at your computer now completely frozen in horror. Most parents' number one priority is preventing their little one from ever figuring out how to climb in and hence out of the crib, lest they fall and get hurt or worse successfully make it out and wreak havoc throughout the house in the middle of the night. My daughter watched our little crib game after school the other day and said this to me, "Mom, what are you thinking? He's going to get loose! I'm telling Dad. It's the law -- what goes in must come out."

She's not wrong. Whenever a client calls and says they are concerned their puppy is ill, I ask: is he eating? is he pooping and peeing? Because as Allie says, it's a law: what goes in MUST come out. (I realize you may be feeling gun shy after last week's tongue-in-cheek dog sermon but don't worry. The subject of the blog is not excrement. Whether or not you deem it's quality to be such is for you to decide.) And that's true, but if I can keep control of when, where and how it goes in, then I can control when, where, and how it comes out. That law is the reason puppies are kept on an eating and drinking schedule, so they can be put on a house-training schedule. If you feed and water a puppy willy-nilly, then he'll poop and pee willy-nilly. I think you can agree even in your horrified state that out of control excretion is not exactly a picnic for the average puppy owner.

I am not remotely worried that Julian is going to be out of control by learning to climb in and out of his crib (or cribby as we say in my house). In fact, by teaching him how to climb in and out and making it a fun game for the two of us to play in the afternoon, I have absolutely guaranteed the fact that it will never get out of control. By teaching him myself, I've ensured his safety. I would much rather play belay-coach in the afternoon than be woken up by a thud an a scream in the middle of the night because he gave it a shot on the down-low. I have also turned this little expedition into an activity we do together. We giggle and laugh the whole time. And I clap furiously when he makes it to the summit or back to base camp, so playing without me isn't much fun. In fact he doesn't even consider it. This afternoon, he interrupted my culinary efforts (yes, Martha's book is still alive and well. Tonight's feast was marinated pork kabobs over cinnamon bulgur with almonds and a parsley, fennel and red onion salad. You don't want to see the mess in my kitchen.) to ask, "Mommy, play cribby peeez!" It was very cute, so mid-marinade, I took a break and off we went to scale the nursery.

Climbing in and out is not a forbidden horror that I cross my fingers against while he seeks to do it behind my back. It is instead a loving game we play together. He trusts that I'll allow him and encourage him to play, and because of that I trust he won't attempt it alone. When I can't take a break from cooking, I tell him "Cribby soon." His response is to say, "ok" and then nag me loudly and relentlessly. Never does he sneak off and try it alone. It's no fun without Mommy there to cheer and clap. In this way, I have taken a potential disaster and turned it into an opportunity for building the bond and the trust between us instead of creating an adversarial and possibly dangerous situation.

This is also a lesson in distraction training for dogs. As I prepare Hunter for our upcoming therapy test in October, I have to take into account the things he'll want to do during the test that I can't allow like running over to sniff the other dog he's supposed to be ignoring, dragging me over from my waiting spot to lick all the testing volunteers, or savagely sniffing the floor of the testing facility to assess in detail every one of the countless dogs that have come through that room. These distractions and his normal canine reaction to them could cause us to fail our certification, and so I live in fear, just like my daughter lives in fear of her brother being able to escape from his crib unnoticed and creep into her room unsupervised. Scary stuff, Man. Scary stuff.

To assuage, Allie's fears, I have reassured her that Julian won't climb out of his crib without an audience to applaud his daring feat, so sneaking is not really part of his repertoire. (Yes, I know that will come later, but another law-- what she doesn't know won't hurt her-- applies here.) It's a game. And games are rarely fun to play by yourself.

To reassure myself with regard to Hunter, the same logic applies. Now I can't make sniffing the ground or another dog's butt a game he plays with me per say. A game of dog-butt twister is about as appealing as the out-of-control excretion puppy in the third paragraph, but I do have some options:

A. Wear him out all day before the test and hope he's too tired to notice anything
B. Ignore it and hope for the best
C. Try a cool counter-intuitive dog trainer trick that is analogous to the permissive crib climbing and hence the whole point of this week's blog post

If you chose A or B, stop reading now. Go get the newspaper, roll it up and smack yourself in the head while yelling "Bad Reader!" Seriously, the issue with choice A is that while another great law is a tired dog is a good dog, exhaustion can produce unreliable results in terms of training responsiveness. He may be so tired that he can't focus on anything and ignores the testers. Not good. He may become over-tired and appear hyper to compensate. Again, not good. Choice B is only good if you're an ostrich or at least not a high strung dog trainer who is paranoid about ruining her professional reputation by failing (who me?), so that's out too. Clearly, the answer is C. Now for the details...

I'm spending my training time encouraging Hunter to sniff and greet to his heart's content, but only after I ask him to wait and look at me first. I am using the forbidden behavior as the reward for not doing it. Pretty tricky, right? Just as Julian is being encouraged to climb the heights of Mt. Cribby until his little hands turn to jell-o, I'm encouraging Hunter to sniff butts until his nose turns to crap. The only caveat is that they must do it with my consent. For my son, it's a game to play with Mommy. For Hunter, it's a grand reward for self-restraint. Hunter is finding it easier and easier to comply with my "sit, wait and look" commands when he really wants to sniff another dog or the ground because he's learning that the sooner he does what I ask, the sooner he'll be released to do what he wants. That's the law of : if he scratches my back, I'll scratch his.

So in answer to my daughter's question, this is what I'm thinking:

Forbidding the inevitable is pointless and never breeds reliability or trust, only curiosity and secretive experimentation, which eventually cause out of control excretion (a.k.a. a shit-storm). It is far more effective to accept that your puppy will poop, Hunter will sniff, and Julian will climb, and then seek to gain control over when, where, and how they go about it. If you feed your puppy at 8 am, you can be sure he'll have to go outside for a potty break by 8:30. If I I ask Hunter to wait before bum-rushing a friendly golden retriever and reward him by letting him do it, then I can count on him to listen during his therapy test and subsequently on therapy visits. And if I teach Julian that climbing in and out of the crib is a wonderful game to play with Mommy, then I can ensure his safety because he'll ask to play when he's in the mood instead of sneaking around to do it.

It's ridiculous to outlaw urine and feces in an effort to housetrain a puppy, just as I can't forbid Hunter to sniff the ground and greet other dogs or expect my son never to climb out of his crib. That's the shit happens law. Screaming at the rain never stopped the storm. So this week, if you find yourself in a shit-storm, don't waste time forbidding the inevitable. Just figure out which way the wind is blowing and adjust accordingly.

http://www.muttstoorder.com
muttstoorder@gmail.com

A Different Kind of Dogma

2010-09-10T22:16:00.000-04:00

Happy Belated Rosh Hashanah, Everyone. No, I'm not Jewish, but the holiday afforded my children a day off. What a tease! After only one short day of school, they were home again yesterday morning turning my breakfast room table into Fort Fisher, complete with crumb-free snacks, pillow pets, screaming and a headache for Mom. If we had been the Frank family of Nazi-occupied Europe instead of the Fisher family of Snooki-occupied Jersey, there would be no diary. We'd have been found and shot in less than an hour. My children are absolutely incapable of silence. Not knowing what else to do with them, I pried my kids from their Ethan Allen lair around 11 AM, dressed them in all their preppy finery, and loaded them into the car for a trip to my grandmother's house. When in doubt, call Grandma.

My grandmother is rapidly approaching her 91st birthday, but when she plays with my children she immediately transforms into the spry, smack-talking, Italian-Catholic grandmother of my youth. It is a pleasure to see. We played, had lunch and then played some more. By 2 PM, she was exhausted and my kids were just warming up, so we headed out. Rather than go home for more fortress play or worse playdo and paint, I redirected to the gym where the kids could run like wild dogs in the child center, and I could find some solace and silence on the stair machine. It's odd how climbing steps and getting nowhere feels so right to me, perhaps because it's so akin to cleaning up as messes are created behind me. (OK- discussion for another post.)

With the children happily destroying someone else's den, I began to climb. I usually pick the machine in front of the TV tuned to CNN so I can watch the news or CNBC so I can gauge how dark my husband's mood will be when he gets home. With Matt staying in the city last night, I went for CNN, which this week is all mosque all the time. Squinting at the ticker, I read that the press-loving pastor in Florida had been talked out of burning a copy of the Quran on Saturday. Instead he is planning to fly to New York to meet with the head of the hotly contested ground zero Islamic Center. A sensational turn of events, but not too surprising given the calls he received from the President and Secretary Gates. As a behaviorist and a writer, I don't share a pew or a kneeler well with any particular ideology, including the one I was raised with. I am more a sit-back and make snarky comments from the vestibule kind of girl. Dogma is not really my thing.

As I was about to shift my attention to the volume of my ipod, I caught a second headline... Trump offers to buy site of planned Islamic Center for 25% above what was paid by the Muslim group. I abruptly fell off my moving staircase and then said aloud to no one in particular, "That's all the situation needs... another freakin' publicity hound!" If they were all spun-up dogs in my charge, I'd have put them all in crates or down stays for a cooling off period, removed the trouble-causing object, and let them back into the play one at a time. Calmest goes first. Then later, I'd re-socialize my charges to the object, first as individuals, then in small groups, and finally as a whole. And if all that failed, I'd introduce a wiser, older female to the pack to settle the dispute for me. When in doubt, call an old bitch.

Getting back on the stairs, I regained my rhythm and considered my choice of words... hound. It's fascinating how much canine verbiage is included in my every day language and thoughts-- publicity hound, run like wild dogs, den, lair, etc. There was even a time during the Marla Maples-Donald Trump scandal that I would have called Mr. Trump another kind of hound which I won't repeat here. It is my chosen profession to understand, support and further the bond between humans and canines. I suppose that over the years, having been steeped in so much dog-dom, I've picked up this way of talking.

As an admirer and lover of all things canine, I believe dogs have an incredibly complex and dynamic social hierarchy. I'm fascinated by how efficiently their system works, certainly more efficiently than our human one. Dogs are keenly focused on the moment, conservative when it comes to potential danger, fiercely protective of their resources including their progeny, but willing to share and share alike so long as proper etiquette is observed. Dogs can always be relied upon to do what is in their best personal interest, and they make no bones about it.

Humans, in my opinion, are essentially the same. We just muck it up because we won't admit it. We like to run around claiming we're doing everyone a favor at our own expense... Mr. Trump and the Gainesville pastor are certainly case and point, but the truth is, like our canine brethren, we really do get something out of whatever it is we are doing. And if we didn't, we wouldn't do it. I'm a firm believer in the self-preserving, if not self-serving nature of all the animals residing on this planet. I seem to have a different kind of dogma. It is one made up certainly of irreverent humor and a healthy dose of pointed realism, but also an unyielding dedication to understanding not so much a simpler creature, but perhaps a less image-conscious one than any of my own kind, myself included.

Having now ironically cast myself in the absurd role of canine cult-leader and Hunter as my choir, I'll end with a sermon from the DELL pulpit:

It's not your fault you're a dog among men because it's a dog-eat-dog world out there and sometimes you're better off letting sleeping dogs lie. If you can't run with the big dogs, then you'll have to stay on the porch. And I don't want you to stay on the porch. I want you to not only run with those big dogs, but be top dog because you're a best in show kinda kid. And while you can't teach an old dog new tricks, home is where your dog is. Doggonit, don't to be the underdog. Your nose may be cold, but your heart is warm. And it may be raining cats and dogs outside, you may be sick as a dog, and that guy may have been nothin' but a hound dog, but don't turn tail and run now. That bitch was all growl and no bite. And you've already made it through the dog days of summer. Every dog has his day, and this my friend, is your day. So if you're feeling up to it, take a bite out of crime. But if not, then just sit, Ubu, sit. Good dog.

Hunter: RUFF!

http://www.muttstoorder.com
muttstoorder@gmail.com

Cheers! Here's to the Great Social Lubricant

2010-09-03T17:12:00.000-04:00

Hunter contemplating a glass of scotch.

It's Thursday around 4 pm, just a few days before Labor Day, and I'm already through one glass of wine. The kids are beginning to crack under the pressure of summer and their mother is faltering along with them. I've resorted to letting the two year-old use paint in the house and running the sprinkler form breakfast 'til dinner in an attempt to entertain two children who are otherwise at each other's throats. My toddler's frequent tantrums and exercises in self-assertion along with my 2nd grader's incessantly expressed boredom are driving my generous pours. Ahh... the end of summer is upon us.

The highlight of my week, however, is not the second glass of wine that I just poured, but actually the great date I had Wednesday night. After two children melted down just in time to terrify and intimidate our new babysitter, Matt and I went out to the Gladstone Tavern for beer, guacamole, and grilled chicken Caesar salads.

During the week, the bar at the Gladstone is a veritable Cheers environment with Vivian, a Rutgers nursing student moonlighting as the bartender, playing the role of Carla in a Rebecca Howe suit (Kirstie Alley before the unfortunate weight gain and subsequent reality show signaling the demise of promise, looks, and talent). Viv is easy on the eyes, has a terrific sass-mouth, and never lets your glass run dry unless you deserve it. The bar stools are filled with regulars punctuated by the occasional golf outing crew playing their 19th hole from either Trump National or Hamilton Farm golf course. Matt and I are, at best, peripheral characters, well-known enough by the police chief (his daughter is a frequent babysitter) and the other locals to receive the requisite, "Hey there, Mr. Fisher," but not so regular that we can't have an intimate conversation. The Gladstone, for us, is the ideal balance of environmental stimulation and personal intimacy making for a terrific date.

In this environment, Matt and I are adept at talking quietly to each other about our marriage, work, kids, parents and friends, then turning our attention to the bar to notice the drunk woman behind us clumsily rising from her seat and stumbling towards the ladies room, make a snarky comment about to Viv and the chief, before returning to our previous conversation. It is our ability to smoothly shift our focus from each other to the environment and back again that makes our date successful and enjoyable. We are neither entirely focused on the bar scene, ignoring each other, eyes darting around the room intruding on other patrons. Nor are we so focused on each other that either of us is upset by the drunk woman bumping my stool and using Matt's shoulder to steady herself, or startled when Viv approaches to offer us a second round.

We've all had dates with one extreme or the other-- the dreaded ADD poster-boy who checks out the waitress's cleavage, can't stop staring at his smartphone, eyes darting around the room never focusing on you or the conversation; or, his nemesis, the clingy close-talker who is unnerved and shut-down in crowds, seeks your complete and undivided attention, dominates the conversation, and is startled by or worse fails to notice the waitress waiting to take your order. Both are terrible dates because neither one is able to smoothly and confidently shift their focus from a dinner partner to the environment and back again. Neither companion is well-socialized.

What's true of dates is true of dogs. So many dogs fall into either the environmentally focused category or the clingy one. For example, your dog is well-behaved and responsive at home, but when you go out he pays no attention to you. He lunges at other people and dogs, sniffs unceasingly, and makes no eye contact let alone complies with your commands and cues. You probably feel embarrassed, annoyed and can't wait to go home, just like you do on a bad date. The clingy close-talking canine is the one that's afraid to jump out of the car when you open the door, becomes fearful and tense when people or dogs approach, and won't leave your side. Again, you feel embarrassed by the dog's behavior and look forward to going home.

It would be so much easier if you could just opt not to go on a second date with your dog-- duck his phone calls and a few days later send an awkward text message: I'm moving to Yemen. Have a nice life. Another easy option would be to pour your dog a glass of wine (or scotch in Hunter's case) to relax her. Alcohol is a social lubricant after all. With a few cocktails in him, your ADD dog might settle down, and your clingy canine might come out of her shell. Of course, unless you live in a fraternity house, it generally frowned upon to give alcohol to dogs. (Sorry, Hunter!)

So what is the right social lubricant to get your dog to be a good date? It is practice and experience in appropriate and increasingly complex environments. To be fair, that's really the right social lubricant for people as well.

Matt and I have great dates because we've had fifteen years to practice. It isn't that he's never been an inattentive, blackberry-obsessed jerk resembling more a caged wild beast than a dinner date in a quiet romantic restaurant. Nor is it that I have not been the tight-lipped, overwhelmed, can't leave you to venture to the ladies room by myself even though I really have to go, fun-killing freak in a trance club. We have been both of those things, and on those dates we both had a miserable time together. Note: Him shouting at me to relax and me snapping at him to pay attention surprisingly didn't improve the date.

With practice and experience, we learned to pace ourselves properly. I picked restaurants with a little more action or invited another couple along. He chose clubs that had a relatively quiet lounge where I could go if I needed a break from the crowds and the music.We socialized each other to those types of environments. I learned to enjoy dancing in the club and felt comfortable knowing I could have a break if I needed it. And Matt learned to enjoy the quiet focus a romantic restaurant provides, abandoning his blackberry in favor of relaxation, knowing that we'll have more exciting plans another time.

While your training goal is probably not getting your timid dog to go to the ladies room by herself in a crowded Manhattan club or your environmentally-focused pup to stop texting during walks, the same principles of socialization apply to those situations that apply to getting your dog to relax and focus on you at a noisy kids soccer tournament or in a busy pet superstore:

Start small- first work where you know your dog can do it, like your living room
Reward generously- whenever your dog looks at you instead of the world reward
Keep it short- 5 minutes a couple of times a week is plenty
Build slowly- from the living room, move up to the car, and later a parking lot
Give breaks- before your dog quits, take a break either for water, sniffing, or play
Try again - try again after the break and you'll get better focus

Give it a shot. Over time, you'll find your dog has become a lovely companion who can easily and appropriately shift his attention from you to the environment and back to you again. No longer will you be wishing you could give your dog the blow-off by text or email. The temptation to pour a cosmopolitan in his water bowl will fade. Instead of a string of bad dates, you'll have a relationship with a dog who can go "where everybody knows his name, where you're always glad he came... because making your way in the world today takes everything you got."

Cheers!

http://www.muttstoorder.com
muttstoorder@gmail.com

The Power of Negative Space

2010-08-27T12:41:00.000-04:00

The cover image of the book Negative Space by Noma Bar

The weather has suddenly and magnificently turned cool this week. This sneak preview of fall has kicked my culinary engine into high-gear. Well, that and if I don’t actually cook instead of ordering takeout yet again, my husband is going to leave me in search of a woman who's most used serving piece is not a pizza box.

As further inspiration, I have a new cookbook. Matt gave me an autographed copy of Martha Stewart’s Dinner at Home: 52 Quick Meals to Cook for Family and Friends. Do you think this could be a hint? Well, let’s just call it “a gift designed to inspire” and leave it at that. Let sleeping marital issues lie, if you know what I mean.

So once a week, I’m endeavoring to cook something fantastic. Fifty-two recipes. Fifty-two weeks. It’s all very Julie & Julia at the moment. I plan to work my way through the book to keep my marriage from being tossed out with the leftover pork fried rice. You should note that my kids have, what we call, limited palates so while they occasionally help with the preparation and are certainly dragged, I mean to say, they accompany me to the grocery store, they do not share in the feast. If it’s not chicken, pasta, or peanut butter, they’re unimpressed.

Monday’s menu this week began with sautéed mushrooms and goat cheese crostini as an appetizer. We’re big on appetizers in our house. I feed the children at 6 pm before Matt gets home from Manhattan which is usually about 7 or 7:30 pm. Then once they go to bed, I feed us at 8:30 pm. We’re often starving while we work our way through the hour and a half of baths and bedtime rituals. In effort to avoid a hypoglycemic fit and stay conscious and in reasonably good humor, I make appetizers or at a minimum serve a store bought vegetable crudite or shrimp cocktail to snack on while we wait for lights out.

After the children finally retired for the evening and following the crostini, we dined on grilled pork paillard and pasta verde. It was fabulous, easy and made a beautiful presentation… a nice departure from our more typical romantic ritual of eating Chinese takeout over the sink while yelling “GO TO SLEEP!” in response to the giggles that inevitably make their way down the back hall from the children’s rooms to the kitchen long after lights should be out. We even opened a lovely bottle of white burgundy and drank it from our Tiffany wine goblets and marveled to each other “This is how the other half lives.”

You might be wondering after five paragraphs, “What the h*ll does this have to do with rottweilers? Or pets for that matter?” Well, strictly speaking, it doesn’t. And therein lies the point. While we’re shuffling kids around through dinner, bath, stories, and bed; and later while we’re eating like civilized people at a beautifully set table, I have a dog that is virtually invisible. Matt and I can sit at our table eating and drinking and talking for hours, and never be interrupted by a begging or whining dog. It is his lack of presence in the aforementioned culinary experiment that should be noted here.

I have a house to keep, a husband, a business, a toddler and a second grader. We also have a social life. I plan parties all the time and host all the family holidays and gatherings.. I need my dogs to fit into my life, not BE my life. I want to be able to cook and enjoy a meal with my husband or host a fabulous multi-coursed dinner party without worrying about my dog’s behavior. So how did I achieve this state of culinary-canine nirvana?

I didn’t use any dog trainer mojo. And Hunter is neither assigned to some interminable down-stay, nor is he penned up. Instead I easily taught Hunter the greatest command in the history of commands… “Be excused.” Well, it was “be excused” the last time I had patience which was back in 1998. Now the command is “Out.” “Out” means go to a place other than where I am. Before I sit down to eat my dinner, I say, “Hunter, out.” He then gets up and heads into the kitchen where he immediately lies down not to be heard from again until the end of the meal whether that end comes in 20 minutes or four hours.

While he was learning, he’d often get up and come back to the breakfast room as soon as I sat down at which point I’d stand up and back him into the kitchen again, repeating the word “out.” I did this as many times as necessary without being annoyed or irritated. If he came into the breakfast room, I’d firmly and gently put him back and repeat the word “out.” At the end of the meal, while cleaning up, I gave him leftovers in the kitchen. After one or two dinners, he figured out very quickly that if he got up, he would just be put back so he might as well quit that habit. If he just hung out quietly in the kitchen, he’d end up with scraps earned through the arduous task of napping on the kitchen floor. And since he can’t tell time, dinner can last as long as I choose. It’s a win-win.

I can host a romantic dinner for 2 or a dinner party for 12 and never think about my dog. He’s a non-entity, as he should be in my dining room. It’s also a fabulous trick to impress friends. I cook what I hope will be an amazing dinner, remove my apron, walk proudly in my Jimmy Choo shoes to the doorway of the dining room and announce dinner is served. Then I bend at the waste and with a smile, say quietly to my dog, “be excused.” (ok, Out) Then I take my seat and observe my guests… everyone’s mouth has dropped open in awe.

So that’s your challenge for this week:

If you have dog, dedicate a few family meals to teaching the command “out,.” Then plan a romantic dinner for two or a dinner party for more and show off your skills. If you don’t have a dog, and want to try this with your children, please do. In this case, set the kids up with a movie, and put them back every time they wander in. They’ll eventually cease interrupting. Then when dinner is over, invite them in for dessert. (Pork scraps aren’t as appealing to the human children as they are to canine ones.) Give it a shot and for once, have a civilized dinner. And don’t worry if the dinner lacks flavor. As long as it elegantly lacks the dog or your kids, no one will remember the food. Negative space is a powerful thing.

I'm a Laugher, Not a Fighter

2010-08-20T09:58:00.000-04:00

Wole and Hunter in the back yard. Summer 2007

As you may or may not have noticed by now, I have a funky and at times what might be termed a diabolical sense of humor. Yes, it was me that a long time ago suggested a pregnant co-worker dress up as Sharon Tate for Halloween. And while I still think that’s hilarious, I have yet to find anyone who agrees.

I am a comedic thrill-seeker, if you will. In addition to morbid serial killer jokes, I find great humor in taking my big male rottweilers into the local public library or the pediatric ward of Morristown Memorial Hospital. It amuses me to watch unassuming library patrons toss their books and jump back into the stacks at the sight of us or listen to what appear to be well-educated doctors and nurses behind me in an elevator whisper to each other, “Maybe there was a bomb scare.” So if you’ve ever run into me in one of these venues, you should have noted the smirk on my face. Sadly, it has been two years since my last comedic sojourn because my partner in this thrill-seeking mission, Wole (pronounced “Whoa-Lay”), died two years ago and his little protégé Hunter was not old enough or mature enough to take his place until now.

On Wednesday morning, I sat at the desk in our library and filled out the application for Hunter and me to take the animal-assisted activities (a.k.a. pet therapy) examination this fall. For those of you who are unfamiliar, Animal Assisted Activities provide opportunities for motivational, educational, and/or recreational benefits to enhance quality of life. AAA are delivered in a variety of environments by a specially trained professional, paraprofessional, and/or volunteer in association with animals that meet specific criteria. In other words, my well-trained, extremely well-socialized and calm dog will take a test and if we pass, we’ll volunteer to serve in various institutional settings—i.e. nursing homes, hospitals, libraries—to visit with patients and patrons in an effort to make them feel better. According to St. Hubert’s Animal Welfare Center, “Clinical studies have proven that animals have the power to help heal people. Simply petting, touching or talking to animals has been shown to improve physical health and emotional well-being. From lowering blood pressure and easing loneliness, depression and anxiety, to boosting self esteem and social skills, animals can have a tremendous therapeutic effect on people.” And it’s funny.

As a trainer, this is what I do with my dogs. Some trainers practice and/or compete in agility, competition obedience, rally, search and rescue, hunting, herding, etc. The list of dog sports and occupations is endless. But my boys and I are givers, so therapy is our thing. It’s a good thing too, that I did with Wole (1999-2008) and now hopefully with Hunter. And I enjoy thwarting people’s expectations. It’s good for them. After all, when you think service dog, don’t you immediately imagine Seeing Eye Dogs—Labrador retrievers, golden retrievers, and German shepherds? And when you think The Omen and hounds from hell, don’t you think rottweilers?

OK- so it’s true that the Seeing Eye, headquartered in Morristown, exclusively utilizes pure bred labs, goldens and shepherds. And yes, that horrible graveyard scene with Gregory Peck in The Omen featured rottweilers, but did you know that rottweilers were not Omen director Richard Donner’s first choice to play Damien’s protectors? He actually wanted Mel Gibson for the role, but the studio wouldn’t allow a creature so grotesque and scary at the time. Just kidding. The director had wanted a different breed of dog, but had trouble finding a kennel in England to supply them, so to avoid ruining his production schedule, he used rottweilers. The film’s wild success did two things for the breed—decimated their reputation and tripled their popularity. Apparently I’m not the only one with a diabolical sense of humor. And don’t worry about Donner not getting to work with his first choice of evil beast; he went on to direct the Lethal Weapon movies starring Gibson in the 80’s.

The point is that rottweilers aren’t evil despite their Hollywood reputation, but most people believe what they see on the big screen for better or for worse. So I get to be a Good Samaritan by taking my rotties into the pediatric ward at Morristown Memorial Hospital to visit oncology patients, the VA hospital in Lyons, NJ to visit infirmed veterans, and the local public library to help children learn to read. And as a bonus, I get to shake up people's expectations, force them out of their snug hobbit-holes of misunderstanding and prejudice, dust off their seldom used brains, and teach them something new.

On a first visit to a given institution, Wole and I roam the halls watching as its inhabitants invariably pin themselves against walls or dive behind furniture in terror until one such person eventually stammers out, “Why are you here?” It generally takes all of my willpower not to widen my smirk into a Cheshire grin and reply to that loaded question with, “Why are any of us here? I ask the Lord and wait for his return. Should be any day now.” (Yes, I’ve actually said that.) But usually maturity wins out and instead I answer, “Hi. My name is Chris and this is Wole. He’s a therapy dog and we’re here to visit. Don’t worry. He’s friendly.”

Wole, for his part, and Hunter, for what I hope will be his, are largely unaffected by these prejudices. The love everyone at first sight. Because I do such a thorough and careful job socializing them, they feel no fear themselves in the face of these desk-divers. Rather than live up to their reputations as a “protective” or “defensive” breed, they act like complete noodles licking everyone and everything within tongue’s reach and shaking their tailless booties for anyone brave enough to make eye contact. One might even term their behavior as slutty or at least that neither of them have any sense of shame whatsoever.

By the time we return for a second visit, the staff is comfortable with us. Comments then usually range from “He’s not like the others” to “he’s a cute one.” By the third or fourth visit, we are considered visiting royalty with the once terrified staff and patients now lining up to be licked and leaned on. And as we walk away at this point, disappointed sighs and moans are punctuated by the staff and patients selling the merits of my dog to each other with comments like, “oh he’s just the sweetest,” or as one nurse put it, “he’s a lover, not a fighter.”

The juxtaposition of bringing the graveyard dogs from The Omen to a hospital to entertain and contribute to the healing of children and veterans tickles my twisted funny bone, and at the same time it forces people to let go of their prejudices and see my boys for more than what they’ve been marketed as. And isn’t that what good humor does? Turn your thoughts and prejudices upside down and make you laugh while you’re looking at the world from a new perspective?

So as I finish the application, I am proud that Hunter is finally ready to take the test with me after 3 ½ years of training, working and growing up. I’m wearing a smirk as I imagine the nervous evaluator that we’ll be sure to encounter when we arrive at the testing center. And as I seal the envelope, the smirk spreads into that wide Cheshire grin because I know that like his owner, Hunter will upend those preconceived notions, buck the expectations, and force people to reconsider what they think they know. I have nothing but love for the doubters, the skeptics and the haters. After all, I’m a laugher, not a fighter… and laughter is the best medicine.

Last week, I challenged you to give your dog or your vampire or your family the silent treatment. Use your body language to communicate. Be in the moment and show how you feel or what you want without talking or texting it. See what happens. And while none of you posted a single comment about how that went, I’m going to put forth another challenge… this week, buck someone’s expectations of you. Defy the preconceived notions. I assure you it’s thrilling.

Cheers,

Chris

Vampires Make Great Pets

2010-08-13T00:55:00.000-04:00

Hunter on the beach in East Hampton, NY, July 2010

In general, I like science fiction and fantasy. For as long as I can remember I've been a fan of everything from Star Trek (original and nex gen) to Dune, from authors J. R. Tolkien and David Eddings to the WB network's Buffy the Vampire Slayer. At the moment, I'm even a True Blood fan...well, maybe fan is too strong. I watch it Sunday nights with the foolish hope that eventually something layered and intelligent will be written instead of the bizarre variety show format which parades creature after creature loosely connected by graphic sex and grisly murders. My optimism is fading, but I digress...

Anyway, when I was a kid, I was enamored by not only the productions' special effects and the creativity of the writers, but also with the forbidden and angst-ridden romances that take place in most of the story lines. Without any communication or relationship skills, a strange otherworldly creature gets girl, loses girl, and then despite intergalactic odds and the fact that the two lovers never have a real conversation or solve their oh-so obvious problems gets girl back who turns out to be freaky in her own way which of course makes everything alright.

As I've gotten older, the romantic formula of the sci-fi/fantasy genre has grown tiresome. After all I'm an adult now with a 15 year relationship that's produced two children. I have a household and business to run, bills to pay, extended families to tolerate with the help of pharmaceuticals and a liquor store within walking distance, parents associations to begrudgingly volunteer for and the list goes on. I've grown up and really no longer find the silent, love-from-a-look-across-a-space-cafe romance all that appealing. So despite my affinity for hobbits, werewolves, and klingons, I have chosen to avoid the latest vamp teen angst flicks and TV shows, mainly out of disgust for their unrealistic romantic themes that I have risen far above by sitting on my high and married horse... that is until Wednesday night.

Whether out of boredom or desperation to watch something without Barney or Elmo, Hunter and I ordered Twilight from Comcast On Demand. Being a dog, Hunter's viewing habits are fairly flexible. As long as I'm sitting quietly on the sofa with my nightly ice cream and cup of decaf and the kids are soundly sleeping in their rooms, Hunter feels his herd is settled and safe enough for him to actually sleep. So I choose the programming for the evening and he snoozes in one of his usual corners of the family room. You'll find most of the herding breeds to be this way... settled only when their flock is too, and otherwise alternately following each member around or lying in one central place with an ear perked for movement, trouble, or in my case food dropping from a high chair. It is only when everyone is still that he can truly sleep. And so, on Wednesday, I ordered Twilight from my handy remote control, and he snored happily from across the room.

First off, I get it. Even from up here on my grown-up high horse of marriage and responsibility, I see the appeal of the movie. The cast, while definitely not in the running for any acting awards (MTV doesn't count), is very beautiful. And the special effects are fun and cool. The chemistry between the main characters Bella and Edward is palpable, but of course the whole thing is teeming with unspoken emotions, lust not acted upon, and a lot of hard staring with the occasional kiss thrown in for good measure. Sexy yes, but it's all body language. No one talks. Over the years, Matt (that's the husband) and I have talked about many things and argued about so many more. We talk and squabble and laugh and work things out and keep it together and moving forward. That's real. That's love. That's life. This was silly.

I suppose the point is that Edward and Bella have a connection so profound that no words are necessary. Or perhaps they didn't want to upset the pretty actors by giving them too many lines to memorize. It's especially interesting that they don't speak because Edward, in addition to being a vampire, is a mind-reader. He can hear everyone's thoughts, except of course for Bella's. You'd think he'd ask in lieu of telepathy.

I am a person who literally talks all day long...
At home...
"Eat your breakfast. Eat your lunch. Get dressed. Pick that up. Did you brush your teeth? Mommy is losing patience. Do that again, and you'll sit in time out. Eat your dinner. No splashing. Who gave the baby a marker?"

At work...
"Sit. Stay. You're doing fine. Let's talk about operant conditioning. Let's talk about classical conditioning. Good Girl. Sit. Stay. Checks are payable to me. Thanks."

And in between all of that, I'm texting, emailing and IMing (and blogging). I'm just a stream of THIS IS WHAT I AM THINKING. So rather than enjoying this romantic and intense connection they had, I found myself feeling irritated by it. I began to get restless watching the movie-- shifting my position on the couch, rolling my eyes, fiddling with the remote.

It was at this moment that Hunter awakened from his stupor and came over. Sleepily, he started licking my hands and then nudged his head under my arm and settled it deeply into my lap. Sighing, I leaned forward and kissed his head. Then I began to scratch between his ears. He closed his eyes and so did I. Taking a deep breath, I settled back into the sofa. Hunter licked me one more time and then slid down onto the floor next to me, half-sleeping this time, keeping one eye on me.

As he did this, I realized something. Hunter and I absolutely never speak and yet we have an incredible connection. I actually make it a point to speak very little to my dogs. Aside from a being a welcome respite from the repetitiveness of my maternal speeches, communicating to my dog without speech is far more effective. Dogs, as a rule, aren't big talkers. They're body language readers-- absolute masters of body language actually, far better than most humans. Usually when a dog fails to comply with a human's request, it's because the human's body language is either unclear or directly conflicts with the word they're using. So many of my clients lecture their dogs expecting to achieve some kind of training result. It never happens. In fact, I've been known to tell clients to spend a week NOT talking to their dog. They have to ask for and get what they want without using any words at all. In my experience, this exercise never detracts from the relationship, but instead enhances it considerably.

Hunter is the one creature in my life to whom I don't have to lecture, repeat, or explain myself. And we don't text each other, IM, or email. I can't even phone it in. If I need something from him, I must show him in person in that moment. And if he wants or needs something from me, he must do the same. It's quite free-ing to have this type of relationship in my life, and despite my blog's original premise, my feelings for Hunter are quite real and heartfelt. Whoops... just got bucked off that horse!

So as I watched the cliffhanger ending (ok- not that much of a cliff) of Twilight with my no-words-needed-I-sensed-your-distress-and-came-to-your-aid love by my side, I admit I've been wrong. The romance of the sci-fi/fantasy world is not a farce after all. Vampires make great pets!

This week, I challenge you to give it a shot. Preset a period of time (a few hours, a day, a week). Then don't talk to your dog or your vampire and see how your relationship changes. If you don't have a dog or a vampire, try it with your spouse. No text. No email. No phone. Eye contact and body language only. Send me a post and let me know how it goes. I'll do it too and let you know next Friday.

Cheers,
Chris

Welcome to the Rottweiler Chronicles

2010-08-10T14:04:00.000-04:00

Happy summer and welcome to the Rottweiler Chronicles, a blog about training dogs and raising kids-- the last two jobs in the world they don't make an app for. My name is Chris Fisher and I'm a dog trainer from New Jersey. And much like you, I wear a lot of hats and lead a complicated life.

About me
In addition to being a dog trainer, I am a housewife to a very cool and funny husband with a crazy job and a long commute, a mom to two amazing little humans and one big, very tolerant rottweiler (pictured left as a puppy). I love clothes and see no reason why one can't keep dog treats and poop bags in a Prada purse. I love interior design and am an avid Architectural Digest and Martha Stewart Living reader. A big movie buff, I recently spent an entire afternoon with my husband communicating using only lines from our reigning favorite, The Hangover, because "that is cool, Stu." (Leslie Chow)

About The Blog
In this blog, I will strive each week to bring you some of the laughter that comes from the complete chaos of raising kids and dogs together in this fast-paced iWorld along with some training tips and useful information about melding your own canine-human relationships with your human-human and human-smartphone ones. I hope to become your little reward for making it through your hectic week without killing your partner, your kids, your dogs or yourself. So get some coffee and check me out on Friday mornings. I promise to bring you a smile and remind you why you got a dog in the first place.

The Reading Rules
1) When you read the word "rottweiler," make no assumptions whatsoever. Rottweilers are not so much a misunderstood breed as they are a misrepresented one. My boys have always been crazy about my kids and tennis balls. They love people including our UPS driver, mail carrier and vet. They are affectionate and emotionally needy to a fault. And of the thousands of dogs I've worked with over the span my career, the rotties are the lowest of the low-maintenance yet yield the highest rewards of the bunch. They also make me laugh the hardest.

2) When you read the words "dog trainer," do not picture a crazy woman wearing a fanny pack who drives a dirty mini-van living in a house that looks and smells more like a kennel than a home. While I'm not a clean freak to the point of OCD, bleach IS my favorite scent. My clothes and furnishings are always stylish, classic and clean. I drive a Black Jeep Wrangler Unlimited devoid of magnetic paw prints, business decals, or the always fresh "My rottweiler is smarter than your honor roll student" bumper sticker. And for the simple reason that I don't live in an amusement park or exist on a diet of funnel cake and cola, I do NOT nor have I EVER worn a fanny pack.

3) When you read the words "New Jersey," do not picture Jersey Shore, Jerseylicious, or the Real Housewives. I've lived here all my life and have never had hair or a voice that could cut glass. I also visit the Jersey shore frequently, but surprise, surprise... I've never been arrested and don't hang in da club. Instead, I run on the boardwalk with my husband (they don't allow dogs) and play frisbee on the beach with my kids. Not everyone from the Garden State lives the GTL lifestyle. The Rottweiler Chronicles is a no-weave, no-acrylic, no-silicone zone.

4) Please feel free to post your comments and questions. I will respond if you're not completely offensive and creepy. Mildly offensive is fine.

5) And finally, if it's Thursday and you're jones-ing for me, have two cocktails and wait until the morning.

Thanks.
See you Friday!
Chris