Although yesterday started off fine, with a long walk during which My Good Dog was mostly perfectly behaved (except when she wasn't), she went on to have a bit of a rough day. Mondays, you know: trash day. All day long, we hear the slow rumbling of garbage trucks. Then the yard waste trucks make their rounds. By the time the mail carrier arrives in the late afternoon, Sophie's limited store of patience has been exhausted. Still, I see progress. Even though she launched a full offensive at the mail carrier's approach, I intervened swiftly and she recovered her equanimity quickly.
This morning, we left for our walk a bit later than usual. A mail carrier truck was parked to the left of us as we neared the trailer park on Telegraph. I made sure I was breathing and walking normally. Sometimes I catch myself tightening up when I see a mail truck, or a FedEx or UPS truck: my shoulders tighten and rise, my breathing gets faster, my heart beat becomes noticeable. I react this way even if I'm out driving by myself.
So I've been learning to pay attention to that and correct my posture. This morning, I held the leash loosely in my left hand, which is in itself progress; I used to begin our walks by wrapping the end of the leash around my hand several times.
We kept walking, with Sophie trotting at a sedate heel. Then she glanced at the mail truck briefly, returned her gaze forward, and kept walking as if she had never once in her life ever even growled at a mail carrier, as if she bore no grudge against mail carriers in general, as if she'd never been the spectacle of 70 pounds of barking, whirling, ferociously lunging fury that interrupted a middle school P.E. class because all the students and the teacher ran to the chain-link fence to stare at her while she let a mail carrier know what was up.
Several blocks later, we'd turned down Ashwood toward the park, and Sophie caught sight of a large, long-haired cat of the striped variety. The cat looked at Sophie calmly, and then approached--not as a Halloween cat would do, but as if she thought she'd like to say hello. Sophie and the cat touched noses and sniffed each other thoroughly. The cat didn't run, Sophie didn't pounce at her, they just looked at each other for a moment, and then Sophie and I went on our way.
This is how it would be in my dream world every day.
Today's Report Card
# of mail trucks sighted (parked): 1
reactivity: 0
# of cats sighted (in motion): 2
reactivity: -5, 0
Showing posts with label mail carriers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mail carriers. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Fool Me Once
Last night, Sophie woke me up in the middle of the night with whimpering and click click clicking of her little toenails on the floor. Her whimpering and anxious clicking were so persistent that yep, again I thought her anxiety was produced by urgent need, but this time, I got a tiny bit smarter and put her on a leash.
When we got to the grass, she tried to bolt. Huh. Must be a whole colony of possums out there, but last night, she didn't get to chase them.
Today's report card
# of mail trucks sighted (in motion): 2
reactivity: 4, 4
recovery: right quick
# of mail trucks sighted (parked): 1
recovery: right quick
# of FedEx trucks sighted (in motion): 1
reactivity: 0
NOTE: This latter may not count; vision isn't a dog's sharpest sense, we were on our way to My Good Dog's Favorite Place, The Park, and so it's highly likely she didn't catch sight of the FedEx truck.
When we got to the grass, she tried to bolt. Huh. Must be a whole colony of possums out there, but last night, she didn't get to chase them.
Today's report card
# of mail trucks sighted (in motion): 2
reactivity: 4, 4
recovery: right quick
# of mail trucks sighted (parked): 1
recovery: right quick
# of FedEx trucks sighted (in motion): 1
reactivity: 0
NOTE: This latter may not count; vision isn't a dog's sharpest sense, we were on our way to My Good Dog's Favorite Place, The Park, and so it's highly likely she didn't catch sight of the FedEx truck.
Friday, March 22, 2013
Natural Born Killer
Here is Sophie, chewing on her ferret. She took a systematic approach to dismantling the ferret, first removing the paws, then then the eyes.
I'm always surprised how I feel when I look at pictures of Sophie. I find her charming: the cutest thing in the world except for my kids. Even just looking at her picture is enough to make me feel this upwelling of love and affection. I love this dog so much. Except when she kills possums.
Writing about dogs and kids is difficult. It's so easy to stumble into a thicket of sentimentalities or predictable jokes--about how lovable or aggravating or mysterious or wise or stubborn or whatever else they are. Who doesn't love his dog? Who doesn't love his kids? Who doesn't find the whole pack of all living beings belonging to oneself wonderful beyond measure? I don't want to know that person.
Sometimes I wonder if we even need to write about dogs and kids, because it seems like everyone already knows what you're going to say.
Last week, while I was preparing to embark on a desert road trip, I went outside to clean up the backyard for the house-sitter and found a dead possum on the patio.
Possums are big, way bigger than cats. They have big sharp teeth and long rat-like tails, and their little paws look disconcertingly like little baby hands. Looking at that big dead possum with its little baby hands made me hate Sophie a little, but I took care of it. I put on leather gardening gloves and then wrapped the gloves in layers of plastic bags, and slid the possum onto a flattened cardboard box. I tried to call Animal Control Services, but couldn't reach anyone, and time was ticking, I had a lot to do that day. I don't know what you're supposed to do with dead possums. I put ours in the trash, and then for the few days while I was away, worried that it wasn't really dead-dead, it was just playing dead, and that the possum would wake up and find itself at the bottom of the trash bin, but I took comfort in considering the possum's size and in its sharp teeth, both of which I thought would go a long way in helping the possum escape the predicament I'd put him in.
When I came back, there was no evidence of a possum resurrection. The house-sitter reported no carnage had taken place in my absence.
A few days after that, I went out in the morning to clean up the yard before taking Sophie for a walk, and then I saw the rest of the possum's family: his mate and all their children. Dead. The sight of the bodies of the mother possum and of all the babies, some still with their paws clinging to the mother, some lying a few inches away in the grass made me hate Sophie again. Baby possums are much darker than their parents. They look a bit like little rats. Some people find rats disgusting. I don't; I had a pet rat when I was in sixth grade. I'd taught my rat to play tag. But that was a pet. Not that I'd be inclined to play tag with the city vermin variety.
After I cried, I went inside. I called Animal Services this time. There are probably millions of people in the world who can cheerfully dispose of that many dead baby animals and their mother in a moment, but I'm not one of them.
The woman who answered the phone at Animal Control Services was very nice. She assured me that possums don't carry diseases, so I didn't have to worry about that, and directed me to leave a note on my door.
When I returned home, the yard was cleared. Sophie sniffed the grass where the possums had been, and I looked at her and hated her a little more. It's not like she needed to eat the possums. Sometimes she won't eat her own food. I would say she killed the possums for sport, but she didn't; she killed them because they're prey and she's a predator, and that's just what predators do. I'm sure she had fun, but it was working kind of fun, not going to the beach kind of fun.
Before Sophie, we had Harriet, a long-haired tortoiseshell cat of distinctly foxy appearance. Harriet was a skilled hunter, and brought home all species of small animals. Sometimes they were dead and sometimes they were alive, and sometimes they were in-between. Mice, gophers, birds, a squirrel, once she carried home a bunny that was more than half her size. Then Harriet herself disappeared. We lived in the hills then, and it could have been the coyotes. Harriet's disappearance broke our hearts.
Before Harriet, we had Shaka, a glossy black short-haired manx. Shaka was such a goofball that I didn't believe he would be much of a hunter, so when dead mice started appearing on the deck, I assumed that they'd been poisoned and that somehow our deck had become the preferred final resting place for neighborhood rodents. Shaka put that belief to rest when he started bringing home live mice, too. Shaka was HBC, vetspeak for "hit by car." We'd put up fliers all over the neighborhood, so I had to endure at least a dozen calls from well-meaning folks who'd seen him before we got the fliers down. Shaka's death broke our hearts, too.
My goal is to keep Sophie alive by any means necessary, so far so good. I don't know what I can do to protect the possums. Maybe always assume Sophie is lying when she indicates she needs to go out in the middle of the night.
By now, I've forgiven her for being a dog and a predator and we're back to normal.
Today's Report Card
# of cats sighted (in motion): 1
reactivity: 1
NOTE: This is very impressive, considering the cat was the one we see on the way to the park. This cat is badder than bad. This cat comes TOWARD us when it sees Sophie. The cat puffs up and steps forward. I admire this cat so much.
Today the owner came out and I told her I'm a big fan of her cat. She looked at Sophie's perked ears and wagging tail, and then asked if Sophie likes cats. Her cat loves dogs that like cats, she said. At that moment, her cat looked like one of those cats on a Halloween card.
I told the cat's owner that Sophie would probably try to eat the cat if I let her go. The cat's owner smiled uncertainly. Sophie had issues, I said apologetically.
# of mail carriers sighted (on foot): 1
reactivity: 3
NOTE: Here I'm thinking we might need to indicate how much time it took for her to calm down, because even though there was an impressive reaction, she pulled herself together right quick.
# of FedEx trucks sighted (in motion): 1
reactivity: 2
# of UPS trucks sighted (in motion): 1
reactivity: 2
It was a busy walk.
I'm always surprised how I feel when I look at pictures of Sophie. I find her charming: the cutest thing in the world except for my kids. Even just looking at her picture is enough to make me feel this upwelling of love and affection. I love this dog so much. Except when she kills possums.
Writing about dogs and kids is difficult. It's so easy to stumble into a thicket of sentimentalities or predictable jokes--about how lovable or aggravating or mysterious or wise or stubborn or whatever else they are. Who doesn't love his dog? Who doesn't love his kids? Who doesn't find the whole pack of all living beings belonging to oneself wonderful beyond measure? I don't want to know that person.
Sometimes I wonder if we even need to write about dogs and kids, because it seems like everyone already knows what you're going to say.
Last week, while I was preparing to embark on a desert road trip, I went outside to clean up the backyard for the house-sitter and found a dead possum on the patio.
Possums are big, way bigger than cats. They have big sharp teeth and long rat-like tails, and their little paws look disconcertingly like little baby hands. Looking at that big dead possum with its little baby hands made me hate Sophie a little, but I took care of it. I put on leather gardening gloves and then wrapped the gloves in layers of plastic bags, and slid the possum onto a flattened cardboard box. I tried to call Animal Control Services, but couldn't reach anyone, and time was ticking, I had a lot to do that day. I don't know what you're supposed to do with dead possums. I put ours in the trash, and then for the few days while I was away, worried that it wasn't really dead-dead, it was just playing dead, and that the possum would wake up and find itself at the bottom of the trash bin, but I took comfort in considering the possum's size and in its sharp teeth, both of which I thought would go a long way in helping the possum escape the predicament I'd put him in.
When I came back, there was no evidence of a possum resurrection. The house-sitter reported no carnage had taken place in my absence.
A few days after that, I went out in the morning to clean up the yard before taking Sophie for a walk, and then I saw the rest of the possum's family: his mate and all their children. Dead. The sight of the bodies of the mother possum and of all the babies, some still with their paws clinging to the mother, some lying a few inches away in the grass made me hate Sophie again. Baby possums are much darker than their parents. They look a bit like little rats. Some people find rats disgusting. I don't; I had a pet rat when I was in sixth grade. I'd taught my rat to play tag. But that was a pet. Not that I'd be inclined to play tag with the city vermin variety.
After I cried, I went inside. I called Animal Services this time. There are probably millions of people in the world who can cheerfully dispose of that many dead baby animals and their mother in a moment, but I'm not one of them.
The woman who answered the phone at Animal Control Services was very nice. She assured me that possums don't carry diseases, so I didn't have to worry about that, and directed me to leave a note on my door.
When I returned home, the yard was cleared. Sophie sniffed the grass where the possums had been, and I looked at her and hated her a little more. It's not like she needed to eat the possums. Sometimes she won't eat her own food. I would say she killed the possums for sport, but she didn't; she killed them because they're prey and she's a predator, and that's just what predators do. I'm sure she had fun, but it was working kind of fun, not going to the beach kind of fun.
Before Sophie, we had Harriet, a long-haired tortoiseshell cat of distinctly foxy appearance. Harriet was a skilled hunter, and brought home all species of small animals. Sometimes they were dead and sometimes they were alive, and sometimes they were in-between. Mice, gophers, birds, a squirrel, once she carried home a bunny that was more than half her size. Then Harriet herself disappeared. We lived in the hills then, and it could have been the coyotes. Harriet's disappearance broke our hearts.
Before Harriet, we had Shaka, a glossy black short-haired manx. Shaka was such a goofball that I didn't believe he would be much of a hunter, so when dead mice started appearing on the deck, I assumed that they'd been poisoned and that somehow our deck had become the preferred final resting place for neighborhood rodents. Shaka put that belief to rest when he started bringing home live mice, too. Shaka was HBC, vetspeak for "hit by car." We'd put up fliers all over the neighborhood, so I had to endure at least a dozen calls from well-meaning folks who'd seen him before we got the fliers down. Shaka's death broke our hearts, too.
My goal is to keep Sophie alive by any means necessary, so far so good. I don't know what I can do to protect the possums. Maybe always assume Sophie is lying when she indicates she needs to go out in the middle of the night.
By now, I've forgiven her for being a dog and a predator and we're back to normal.
Today's Report Card
# of cats sighted (in motion): 1
reactivity: 1
NOTE: This is very impressive, considering the cat was the one we see on the way to the park. This cat is badder than bad. This cat comes TOWARD us when it sees Sophie. The cat puffs up and steps forward. I admire this cat so much.
Today the owner came out and I told her I'm a big fan of her cat. She looked at Sophie's perked ears and wagging tail, and then asked if Sophie likes cats. Her cat loves dogs that like cats, she said. At that moment, her cat looked like one of those cats on a Halloween card.
I told the cat's owner that Sophie would probably try to eat the cat if I let her go. The cat's owner smiled uncertainly. Sophie had issues, I said apologetically.
# of mail carriers sighted (on foot): 1
reactivity: 3
NOTE: Here I'm thinking we might need to indicate how much time it took for her to calm down, because even though there was an impressive reaction, she pulled herself together right quick.
# of FedEx trucks sighted (in motion): 1
reactivity: 2
# of UPS trucks sighted (in motion): 1
reactivity: 2
It was a busy walk.
Monday, March 18, 2013
Two Steps Forward, One Step Back
We're moving in the right direction.
Today's Report Card
# of meter readers sighted: 1
reactivity: 3
# of cats sighted (2):
reactivity: 1
# of mail carriers sighted (in motion, with truck): 1
reactivity: 0
I would throw a party if only there hadn't been such a hullaballoo about the meter reader.
Today's Report Card
# of meter readers sighted: 1
reactivity: 3
# of cats sighted (2):
reactivity: 1
# of mail carriers sighted (in motion, with truck): 1
reactivity: 0
I would throw a party if only there hadn't been such a hullaballoo about the meter reader.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Red Letter Day
Last night, we went for a walk after mail carrier hours, but you know how industrious those UPS delivery folk are, fetching you your packages until late in the evening. My Bad Dog made a bit of a to-do over the UPS truck, but nothing remarkable, just a bit of crankiness really. You probably wouldn't have slowed down to stare as you were driving by.
Last week, you might have slowed down to stare when My Bad Dog bolted after a squirrel. I was walking with my daughter, and it was a Non-Mail-Carrier Day. You know how complacency was a no bueno in the Bible? Still a no bueno. We're walking in a neighborhood and chatting while My Bad Dog is masquerading as My Good Dog, and then suddenly--WHOOMP! My Bad Dog lunged, leaping over a low brick wall and pulling me flat on my face in the dirt. No injuries resulted.
We had recovered ourselves, got My Bad Dog back into compliance, and resumed walked when a man on the next block greeted us, saying he'd watched the landing. After asking if I was okay, he laughed heartily and said that he'd called his whole family to come and look out the window. They thought it was funny, too.
Still and all, though the progress is slow, we are making progress. Today the mail carrier drove past our house and My Bad Dog didn't even bark. Not once.
Last week, you might have slowed down to stare when My Bad Dog bolted after a squirrel. I was walking with my daughter, and it was a Non-Mail-Carrier Day. You know how complacency was a no bueno in the Bible? Still a no bueno. We're walking in a neighborhood and chatting while My Bad Dog is masquerading as My Good Dog, and then suddenly--WHOOMP! My Bad Dog lunged, leaping over a low brick wall and pulling me flat on my face in the dirt. No injuries resulted.
We had recovered ourselves, got My Bad Dog back into compliance, and resumed walked when a man on the next block greeted us, saying he'd watched the landing. After asking if I was okay, he laughed heartily and said that he'd called his whole family to come and look out the window. They thought it was funny, too.
Still and all, though the progress is slow, we are making progress. Today the mail carrier drove past our house and My Bad Dog didn't even bark. Not once.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
The View from Today
When you watch The Dog Whisperer, dogs like My Bad Dog are rehabilitated in 20 or 30 minutes.
That's not what's happening here. What can I say? Today we walked. She mostly walked well. When she pulled ahead, we stopped and she went into reverse and we proceeded.
In mail carrier news (we received three USPS packages today)--how shall I put this? If I were our mail carrier, I would not put away the pepper spray quite yet. Still, the situation seems to show a shade of improvement.
Eight months, you know. A lot can happen in eight months. A friend asked if I felt discouraged about the eight months, but I don't think that matters. What matters is that eight months are going to pass whether I work with My Bad Dog or not. I can spend eight months working with her and there may be a significant improvement to both her excitable temperament and our quality of life, or I can let the eight months pass without working with her and find myself eight months from now exactly in the same spot.
That's not what's happening here. What can I say? Today we walked. She mostly walked well. When she pulled ahead, we stopped and she went into reverse and we proceeded.
In mail carrier news (we received three USPS packages today)--how shall I put this? If I were our mail carrier, I would not put away the pepper spray quite yet. Still, the situation seems to show a shade of improvement.
Eight months, you know. A lot can happen in eight months. A friend asked if I felt discouraged about the eight months, but I don't think that matters. What matters is that eight months are going to pass whether I work with My Bad Dog or not. I can spend eight months working with her and there may be a significant improvement to both her excitable temperament and our quality of life, or I can let the eight months pass without working with her and find myself eight months from now exactly in the same spot.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Progress, Not Perfection
I would like perfection. I don't always--there's a charm in the imperfections and flaws of hand-crafted work, and I do believe all of our little quirks and eccentricities are so endearing--but in the matter of My Bad Dog's rehabilitation, perfection would be nice.
It is as yet a dream to which we aspire. However. There is good progress:
1. We've been walking every day now and have not experienced a major incident.
2. My Bad Dog's mail carrier alert system seems to be dialed back. One day this week, the mail carrier arrived, deposited the mail, and departed, with My Bad Dog peacefully sleeping and none the wiser.
3. When she does become aware of the mail carrier's presence, My Bad Dog seems to have a reaction that is less impressive than her usual temporary insanity.
4. She is definitely barking much less.
In the spirit of full disclosure, I must say that #1 may be a hollow boast; I only walk My Bad Dog during non-mail-carrier hours: before seven a.m. and after eight p.m. Even so, we did experience one minor incident, with a large delivery truck that looked nothing like a mail carrier's truck, so I don't know why My Bad Dog took umbrage, but the umbrage was mild (it's all relative; it might not have seemed mild to an onlooker) and soon abated.
My Bad Dog does seem more fatigued than usual. I was wondering whether our training regime is exhausting her. If so, good.
The Regime
1. At least an hour to an hour and a half of walking every day, with a long walk in the morning and a short walk at night.
2. During the walk, My Bad Dog is not allowed to step ahead of me. Not at all. This is per the trainer's instruction. If My Bad Dog steps ahead of me, I stop and tell her to go back. Sometimes she backs up immediately when she senses the tension in the leash; other times, she needs a gentle reminder or four. Most walks she is exceedingly cooperative. Rarely, but it happens, a walk is made unbearably tedious because we stop every few steps.
3. At home, My Bad Dog is not allowed to lean against me, nor to put her paw on me.
4. My Bad Dog must wait for the humans to pass through doorways before she is allowed to pass.
5. When My Bad Dog has a legitimate reason to bark, I look at the disturbance, thank her for telling me, and ask her to stop. If she doesn't stop, she comes with me into my room and lies down on her bed for a moment. When her crazy comes upon her, she comes with me into my room and, after some convincing, lies down on her bed.
Stacy (the trainer) did tell me it would take eight months. One week down, thirty-one to go. Although I expect our progress to accelerate after April, which is when we hope to begin working with Stacy in person, that being the month during which she will be studying a method of working with dogs like My Bad Dog.
This all sounds like a regime to train My Bad Dog, but I understand that I'm training myself to provide clear and consistent feedback and guidance to My Bad Dog in order to help her manage herself in the world in a way that will not cause harm to herself nor others.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
The Dismal Situation
The dismal Situation waste and wilde,
A Dungeon horrible, on all sides round
As one great Furnace flam'd, yet from those flames
No light, but rather darkness visible
Serv'd onely to discover sights of woe,
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
That comes to all; but torture without end
Still urges, and a fiery Deluge, fed
With ever-burning Sulphur unconsum'd:
Such place Eternal Justice had prepar'd
For those rebellious, here thir Prison ordain'd
In utter darkness, and thir portion set
As far remov'd from God and light of Heav'n
As from the Center thrice to th' utmost Pole.
Thus spaketh Milton in Paradise Lost.
My Bad Dog--I don't even know how to talk about her. I may be projecting, but sometimes I feel as if at least a few of my friends think about My Bad Dog as they would were I living with an abusive spouse. I respond as I imagine an abused woman might: by making excuses for My Bad Dog. It's humiliating.
A Dungeon horrible, on all sides round
As one great Furnace flam'd, yet from those flames
No light, but rather darkness visible
Serv'd onely to discover sights of woe,
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
That comes to all; but torture without end
Still urges, and a fiery Deluge, fed
With ever-burning Sulphur unconsum'd:
Such place Eternal Justice had prepar'd
For those rebellious, here thir Prison ordain'd
In utter darkness, and thir portion set
As far remov'd from God and light of Heav'n
As from the Center thrice to th' utmost Pole.
Thus spaketh Milton in Paradise Lost.
My Bad Dog--I don't even know how to talk about her. I may be projecting, but sometimes I feel as if at least a few of my friends think about My Bad Dog as they would were I living with an abusive spouse. I respond as I imagine an abused woman might: by making excuses for My Bad Dog. It's humiliating.
Maybe it is just me judging myself, as I well might have judged a Not-Me someone in the same circumstance. The pragmatic voice in my nature tells me that there is a slim likelihood that I will succeed in reforming My Bad Dog. And yet, I love this dog and so I have to try.
Life with My Bad Dog is never dull. Completing an ordinary walk in an uneventful fashion floods my soul with joy and goodwill to all. For people who smile at us and pet My Bad Dog, who treat her as if she is My Good Dog, I feel an upwelling of tender affection.
We moved to this neighborhood in November. In our last neighborhood, there was one mail carrier, and we knew what time to stay off the street to avoid encounters. But here--the mail carriers are legion, their routines unpredictable. There's an army of mail carriers. It's like being in a horror movie of psychotic mail carriers, or a nightmare in which a malevolently grinning mail carrier pops up at every corner.
At home, we're making significant progress: I'm allowing My Bad Dog to do what she perceives is her sworn duty to protect and serve by giving warning barks about passing strangers on the street, odd noises, or dogs barking in the distance. I ask her to stop once she's alerted me to the potential for danger.
With the mail carrier, I try to be alert enough to escort My Bad Dog into my room before her crazy comes upon her, and then I stay with her until the mail carrier has long since disappeared.
But with mail carriers in public, I still don't quite know what to do. In this, what seems to be the natural habitat of a diverse and thriving population of mail carriers, the only way to avoid them is to walk in utter darkness--that is, stay off the street 8-5 Monday through Saturday. It may come to that.
Such walks, as the one we had yesterday, lure me into complacency.
And then there is a walk like the one we had the day before yesterday, during which My Bad Dog unexpectedly bolted. My daughter had been holding the leash loosely, as My Bad Dog seemed to be behaving well, but she dropped it for a second. What happened next was shocking: My Bad Dog ran into the four-lane street in pursuit of a transit bus. Three cars had to stop to avoid hitting her as she zigzagged in traffic. We ran after her, then I told my daughter to stay put, and I ran across the street and called My Bad Dog. The dog stopped, and then turned around and ran straight back to me.
On that same walk, we encountered three different mail carriers. My Bad Dog reacts to mail carriers (and their trucks) in three ways:
1. Through some miracle, she doesn't quite register their evil presence and we keep walking. This is unusual enough that when it happens, we speak about it as divine intervention.
2. There is just a momentary lunge and a growl before we get My Bad Dog's attention back. This is not quite as rare as #1, but is much rarer than #3.
3. My Bad Dog becomes fixated on the evil presence of the mail carrier (or the mail carrier's truck) and her crazy comes upon her. Truly, it can be terrifying to see the lunging and leaping, the raised hackles and bared teeth.
On that walk, we experienced all three reactions.
This morning, we experienced all three reactions in this sequence:
1. A mail carrier drove toward us as we walked on the sidewalk. My Bad Dog growled and lunged, but once the truck passed, I got her focused back on walking forward.
2. Wouldn't you know it, that mail carrier had gone up and made a U turn. So when My Bad Dog and I were walking home, I saw the mail carrier's truck a block ahead. I employed a diversionary tactic, allowing My Bad Dog free sniffing time in the shrubbery in front of a convalescent hospital, and proceeding only when the mail carrier was safe in her truck and once again driving toward us. My Bad Dog barely noticed the truck as it passed.
3. Before I had time to congratulate myself on our escape, I saw a different mail carrier driving toward us and then he parked. Right in front of us. My Bad Dog gave vent to fury that you would have to see to believe, fury so vigorously expressed that an elderly woman in whom curiosity overrode prudence, wandered onto the sidewalk in her housecoat and slippers to watch the show. (I understand how curiosity may override not just common sense, but good manners--and yet, it is so horrible to be on the receiving end of that nakedly avid interest, especially when one is working with all one's might to avert bloodshed.) The mail carrier waved to me with both hands, gesturing that I should keep walking past him. I don't understand how he could have thought that was a good idea. My Bad Dog barked and growled and leaped and lunged with all her strength. I even had a quick stumble and fall in the tussle. It seemed like an eternity in hell, but it was probably less than a minute before I got her turned around and we went home another way.
We moved to this neighborhood in November. In our last neighborhood, there was one mail carrier, and we knew what time to stay off the street to avoid encounters. But here--the mail carriers are legion, their routines unpredictable. There's an army of mail carriers. It's like being in a horror movie of psychotic mail carriers, or a nightmare in which a malevolently grinning mail carrier pops up at every corner.
At home, we're making significant progress: I'm allowing My Bad Dog to do what she perceives is her sworn duty to protect and serve by giving warning barks about passing strangers on the street, odd noises, or dogs barking in the distance. I ask her to stop once she's alerted me to the potential for danger.
With the mail carrier, I try to be alert enough to escort My Bad Dog into my room before her crazy comes upon her, and then I stay with her until the mail carrier has long since disappeared.
But with mail carriers in public, I still don't quite know what to do. In this, what seems to be the natural habitat of a diverse and thriving population of mail carriers, the only way to avoid them is to walk in utter darkness--that is, stay off the street 8-5 Monday through Saturday. It may come to that.
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
My Bad Dog
A few months ago, I was walking My Bad Dog in an unfamiliar neighborhood. She was masquerading as a good dog. She does that a lot. In fact, she does it so frequently and so convincingly that I often forget she is My Bad Dog and think of her as My Good Dog.
Here she is, pretending to be My Good Dog:
Here she is, reminding me that she is My Bad Dog:
On the occasion of that particular walk, she trotted calmly by my side, pausing now and again to sniff sedately at a tree trunk. She has not always been one to trot calmly by my side. The evening we returned home from our first walk together, my shirt was damp with sweat from the exertion of restraining a 70-pound beast from following her own barbaric inclinations.
After that first walk, I read all the Cesar Millan books. Feeling unequal to the challenge of remaining calm-assertive with My Bad Dog (or even remaining calm-assertive in general), I also called a trainer, with whom we had two private sessions and one group class. (More on this later.)The results were impressive: My Bad Dog now has a repertoire of tricks and is usually a good walker under ideal circumstances.
These were ideal circumstances, if by "ideal" we mean "absent of cats, bunnies, squirrels, mail carriers, UPS delivery folk, or FedEx drivers," and so My Bad Dog was on her best behavior. Across the street we saw a woman being pulled hither and yon by her high-spirited black lab. The lab leapt and gamboled, rearing up on its hind legs and pawing at the air, then dashing forward to sniff at a tree before zigzagging back to sniff at a fence. The woman called to me, asking how I got my dog to walk so well on a leash.
"I train her," I said.
"This one is beyond training," she called, and then was yanked onward.
How little faith you have in your dog, I thought at the time.
But who am I to talk?
I am sort of kidding when I say that Sophie is My Bad Dog. She is so good, such a loyal and loving dog. She is the best watch dog ever. She sleeps at the foot of my bed until I'm asleep, then she sleeps in the living room, always returning to her post before I wake. She hates to wake me up when I'm sleeping; if she has to go out in the middle of the night, she wakes one of my daughters. She runs through her commands diligently even when she is tired. She waits patiently while I prepare her food, and only eats when I tell her she may. She won't eat if I'm not home. She looks at me as if to ask permission when my daughters take her for a walk. She has excellent manners; whether by nature or by training that occurred before our acquaintance, she is free from objectionable behaviors such as chewing on shoes or furniture, snatching food from tables, face-licking, and jumping up (that is, she never jumps up at me; she will jump up at new people, but she'll stop if you tell her to). She doesn't scratch at doors, whine, or beg.
What leads me to call her My Bad Dog seems to be temporary (though extreme) madness mostly brought on by mail carriers, UPS delivery folk, and FedEx drivers. And small, furry creatures in motion. She's not fond of police officers, either. Basically, she's leery of uniforms. And--though this applies only to how she feels at home and in the car, because she's generally friendly on walks, unless you are a mail carrier--strangers. Nor does she like it when friends arrive unannounced. She expresses her dislike of this practice vigorously and with a great show of teeth.
I have friends who are afraid of My Bad Dog and friends who are not. Of course she seems just a bit more crazy and a bit more bad around the ones who are. Because she once bit an innocent passer-by (we were waiting at a stoplight and all was well with the world until a man passed behind us and My Bad Dog lunged after him, biting him twice before I could get her under control; I still don't know what about that kindly middle-aged man in glasses, a baseball cap, and pleated-front khakis unleashed her fury--maybe he was an off-duty mail carrier), I use a training collar on walks. It's the only way to be sure I can control her, if by "control her" we mean "keep her from biting an innocent passer-by for no reason or from chasing the mail carrier back to his truck and then circling it like a lion preying on a gazelle." (She actually did that. Of all the many blessings I have received in my life, one of the greatest is that the mail carrier got the door shut before My Bad Dog reached him.) The training collar is metal, with prongs. Sometimes people see the collar and give us a wide berth, even when Sophie is masquerading as My Good Dog. If all I ever saw of My Bad Dog was My Bad Dog, I would give us a wide berth, too.
Today we were walking in that neighborhood that is by now familiar. We had an unpleasant moment when a FedEx truck idled at a stop sign in front of us; more unpleasantness ensued when we spied a mail carrier on her route. If we calculated the proportion of pleasantness to unpleasantness on the walk, pleasantness would win in a landslide; we had friendly encounters with an older guy and his yellow lab and with a young guy on a skateboard and his German shepherd. We greeted a basset hound mix and had a nice moment with a small silky dog of indeterminate breed. At the park, we practiced our repertoire of tricks. And yet, the unpleasant moments were so dramatically unpleasant. During the worst of it, she turned back and snapped at me. She didn't hurt me; I had heavy sweatpants on. Still, it was shocking.
I hadn't admitted to myself that I'd given up on My Bad Dog. Not entirely--we do a training session every day, sometimes more than once a day, and sometimes we show off for little kids, because little kids love to see dogs do tricks. But I had accepted that in the matter of her mail-carrier madness, My Bad Dog was incorrigible.
Is she really? There is strong evidence that she is, evidence in the form of a letter written by a previous owner in which the owner reports that My Bad Dog was deemed incorrigible by an experienced trainer. There is also my own experience.
Then again, maybe everyone--including me--just gave up too soon.
Here she is, pretending to be My Good Dog:
Here she is, reminding me that she is My Bad Dog:
On the occasion of that particular walk, she trotted calmly by my side, pausing now and again to sniff sedately at a tree trunk. She has not always been one to trot calmly by my side. The evening we returned home from our first walk together, my shirt was damp with sweat from the exertion of restraining a 70-pound beast from following her own barbaric inclinations.
After that first walk, I read all the Cesar Millan books. Feeling unequal to the challenge of remaining calm-assertive with My Bad Dog (or even remaining calm-assertive in general), I also called a trainer, with whom we had two private sessions and one group class. (More on this later.)The results were impressive: My Bad Dog now has a repertoire of tricks and is usually a good walker under ideal circumstances.
These were ideal circumstances, if by "ideal" we mean "absent of cats, bunnies, squirrels, mail carriers, UPS delivery folk, or FedEx drivers," and so My Bad Dog was on her best behavior. Across the street we saw a woman being pulled hither and yon by her high-spirited black lab. The lab leapt and gamboled, rearing up on its hind legs and pawing at the air, then dashing forward to sniff at a tree before zigzagging back to sniff at a fence. The woman called to me, asking how I got my dog to walk so well on a leash.
"I train her," I said.
"This one is beyond training," she called, and then was yanked onward.
How little faith you have in your dog, I thought at the time.
But who am I to talk?
I am sort of kidding when I say that Sophie is My Bad Dog. She is so good, such a loyal and loving dog. She is the best watch dog ever. She sleeps at the foot of my bed until I'm asleep, then she sleeps in the living room, always returning to her post before I wake. She hates to wake me up when I'm sleeping; if she has to go out in the middle of the night, she wakes one of my daughters. She runs through her commands diligently even when she is tired. She waits patiently while I prepare her food, and only eats when I tell her she may. She won't eat if I'm not home. She looks at me as if to ask permission when my daughters take her for a walk. She has excellent manners; whether by nature or by training that occurred before our acquaintance, she is free from objectionable behaviors such as chewing on shoes or furniture, snatching food from tables, face-licking, and jumping up (that is, she never jumps up at me; she will jump up at new people, but she'll stop if you tell her to). She doesn't scratch at doors, whine, or beg.
What leads me to call her My Bad Dog seems to be temporary (though extreme) madness mostly brought on by mail carriers, UPS delivery folk, and FedEx drivers. And small, furry creatures in motion. She's not fond of police officers, either. Basically, she's leery of uniforms. And--though this applies only to how she feels at home and in the car, because she's generally friendly on walks, unless you are a mail carrier--strangers. Nor does she like it when friends arrive unannounced. She expresses her dislike of this practice vigorously and with a great show of teeth.
I have friends who are afraid of My Bad Dog and friends who are not. Of course she seems just a bit more crazy and a bit more bad around the ones who are. Because she once bit an innocent passer-by (we were waiting at a stoplight and all was well with the world until a man passed behind us and My Bad Dog lunged after him, biting him twice before I could get her under control; I still don't know what about that kindly middle-aged man in glasses, a baseball cap, and pleated-front khakis unleashed her fury--maybe he was an off-duty mail carrier), I use a training collar on walks. It's the only way to be sure I can control her, if by "control her" we mean "keep her from biting an innocent passer-by for no reason or from chasing the mail carrier back to his truck and then circling it like a lion preying on a gazelle." (She actually did that. Of all the many blessings I have received in my life, one of the greatest is that the mail carrier got the door shut before My Bad Dog reached him.) The training collar is metal, with prongs. Sometimes people see the collar and give us a wide berth, even when Sophie is masquerading as My Good Dog. If all I ever saw of My Bad Dog was My Bad Dog, I would give us a wide berth, too.
Today we were walking in that neighborhood that is by now familiar. We had an unpleasant moment when a FedEx truck idled at a stop sign in front of us; more unpleasantness ensued when we spied a mail carrier on her route. If we calculated the proportion of pleasantness to unpleasantness on the walk, pleasantness would win in a landslide; we had friendly encounters with an older guy and his yellow lab and with a young guy on a skateboard and his German shepherd. We greeted a basset hound mix and had a nice moment with a small silky dog of indeterminate breed. At the park, we practiced our repertoire of tricks. And yet, the unpleasant moments were so dramatically unpleasant. During the worst of it, she turned back and snapped at me. She didn't hurt me; I had heavy sweatpants on. Still, it was shocking.
I hadn't admitted to myself that I'd given up on My Bad Dog. Not entirely--we do a training session every day, sometimes more than once a day, and sometimes we show off for little kids, because little kids love to see dogs do tricks. But I had accepted that in the matter of her mail-carrier madness, My Bad Dog was incorrigible.
Is she really? There is strong evidence that she is, evidence in the form of a letter written by a previous owner in which the owner reports that My Bad Dog was deemed incorrigible by an experienced trainer. There is also my own experience.
Then again, maybe everyone--including me--just gave up too soon.
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