A few nights ago, it was late, I was tired, and I could hear my daughters practicing their cellos (celli?) in their studio. (Studio may be a grandiose term; it's a shed, albeit with French doors and several windows, with an interior that we painted lilac, and it was designated their music room because inside our small house, two cellos/celli playing at one time is a lot.)
The background on this is that we've always had this rule, as loosely followed as it was enforced, of no practicing after 9:30, 10 at the latest, 10 being the hour specified in the city ordinance prohibiting noise. It was 11:30 and my daughters were playing their cellos/celli. Was I steamed.
I went out to the shed, offered a reprimand, and invited them to shut it down and go to bed. All the while I grumbled--about having had to rise from my warm cozy bed, about the possibility of their having disturbed the neighbors, and so on.
When I woke up in the morning, I saw that what I've often suspected is true: I am the most ridiculous person in the world. Here I have these teen-age daughters, these straight A students, these musicians who diligently practice: girls who are nice, fun to be with, and funny as all get-out, girls who never cause me a moment's worry that they might be sneaking out to gleefully roll around in all the trouble that teen-agers often do roll around in. If the worst thing they ever do is practice their cellos/celli at 11:30 at night on a school night--well! Then I will have been mightily blessed.
Late, while walking My Good Dog, I listened to the Make Dogs Your Life podcast, episode 4, the interview with Jessica Dolce, a professional walker of dogs. Ms. Dolce talked about this very topic as applied to dogs, and I realized how incredibly good My Good Dog is, let me count the ways:
1. Never chews on shoes or furniture or any other item except chew toys.
2. Is 100% house-broken.
3. Is absent any hint of food or toy aggression.
4. Is always sweet and calm to small dogs, no matter how aggressive the small dog is.
5. Is almost always sweet and calm with any dog (except, rarely, dogs that are aggressive to her--she usually doesn't react, but once in a while, she does--and, only twice, she was snappy with dogs who seemed passive and sweet).
6. Learns new tricks quickly.
7. Obeys basic commands: sit, stay, wait, down, sit up, shake.
8. Walks well on a leash.
9. Is always sweet and calm with family members.
10. Never lies on the furniture (when we're home).
11. Doesn't jump up on people who don't let her jump up on them.
12. Has learned not to lick my face.
13. Never steals food from the table or counter.
14. Never gets into the trash.
15. Is a pleasant companion.
All that having been said, if My Bad Dog's one personality flaw is her reactivity to mail carriers and all delivery personnel and strangers who come to our house unannounced, well, maybe that isn't the worst thing in the world.
Especially if that one personality flaw is seeming to (very gradually) diminish.
I decided to record the level of reactivity along with the stimulus to help me monitor improvement. Reactivity is measured on a 0 to 5 scale, 0 being obliviousness and 5 being nuclear explosion.
Today's Report Card
# of cats sighted: 2
reactivity: 1
# of FedEx trucks (in motion): 1
reactivity: 1
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Into the Fire
Saturday
# of mail trucks (parked): 1
# of mail trucks (in motion): 1
# of mail carriers (on foot): 1
# of UPS trucks (parked): 1
# of UPS delivery folk (on foot): 1
Fatalities or injuries: 0
Sunday
N/A
Monday
# of mail trucks (parked): 1
# of mail trucks (in motion): 2
# of mail carriers (on foot): 2
# of FedEX trucks (in motion): 1
# of UPS trucks (in motion): 1
Fatalities or injuries: 0
Tuesday:
# of mail trucks (parked): 1
# of mail carriers (on foot): 1
# of FedEx trucks (in motion): 1
Fatalities or injuries: 0
You see I have a new grading system for our walks.
We have been walking directly into the fire. Not once have we made evasive maneuvers. If a mail carrier is walking toward us from up the block, forward we go.
On Monday, the show we put on as we passed a parked mail truck and walked toward a mail carrier (who, upon seeing us, immediately reversed direction, got out her cell phone, and made a call while walking rapidly away) was so impressive that the two teams of middle-schoolers who were playing basketball across the street stopped the game to watch. Even the P.E. teacher stopped to watch for a second before he blew his whistle and yelled at them to get back to it. The gardener who was cleaning off the sidewalk of the church actually stopped the leaf blower and stood and watched.
The great thing? The show didn't last long. The more practice we have of My Good Dog reacting to the evil presence of mail delivery personnel and vehicles and my intervening, the less dramatic it gets.
This morning, as we passed the trailer park on Telegraph, My Good Dog fixed her attention on the mail carrier truck and on the mail carrier on foot beyond the truck, and I kept walking. She reared back a bit, tried a lunge to the right, and I gave a quick snap to the leashes (to ensure the safety of mail delivery personnel, I've been using two leashes in case one breaks or somehow gets free of me), told her no, and kept walking. Although My Good Dog continued to display an unseemly interest in the mail truck until we were half a block away, she did keep walking, and we walking the rest of the way home with My Good Dog trotted sedately at my side.
We've all heard the adage to face our fears a million times. The thinking part of my brain always nods and agrees Yes! Let's face our fears! Let's be bold and brave and daring! while the part of my brain that controls my actions sticks her fingers in her ears and ducks under the covers to hide until the thinking part of my brain gets distracted and wanders away. But the stakes are too high to do that now.
# of mail trucks (parked): 1
# of mail trucks (in motion): 1
# of mail carriers (on foot): 1
# of UPS trucks (parked): 1
# of UPS delivery folk (on foot): 1
Fatalities or injuries: 0
Sunday
N/A
Monday
# of mail trucks (parked): 1
# of mail trucks (in motion): 2
# of mail carriers (on foot): 2
# of FedEX trucks (in motion): 1
# of UPS trucks (in motion): 1
Fatalities or injuries: 0
Tuesday:
# of mail trucks (parked): 1
# of mail carriers (on foot): 1
# of FedEx trucks (in motion): 1
Fatalities or injuries: 0
You see I have a new grading system for our walks.
We have been walking directly into the fire. Not once have we made evasive maneuvers. If a mail carrier is walking toward us from up the block, forward we go.
On Monday, the show we put on as we passed a parked mail truck and walked toward a mail carrier (who, upon seeing us, immediately reversed direction, got out her cell phone, and made a call while walking rapidly away) was so impressive that the two teams of middle-schoolers who were playing basketball across the street stopped the game to watch. Even the P.E. teacher stopped to watch for a second before he blew his whistle and yelled at them to get back to it. The gardener who was cleaning off the sidewalk of the church actually stopped the leaf blower and stood and watched.
The great thing? The show didn't last long. The more practice we have of My Good Dog reacting to the evil presence of mail delivery personnel and vehicles and my intervening, the less dramatic it gets.
This morning, as we passed the trailer park on Telegraph, My Good Dog fixed her attention on the mail carrier truck and on the mail carrier on foot beyond the truck, and I kept walking. She reared back a bit, tried a lunge to the right, and I gave a quick snap to the leashes (to ensure the safety of mail delivery personnel, I've been using two leashes in case one breaks or somehow gets free of me), told her no, and kept walking. Although My Good Dog continued to display an unseemly interest in the mail truck until we were half a block away, she did keep walking, and we walking the rest of the way home with My Good Dog trotted sedately at my side.
We've all heard the adage to face our fears a million times. The thinking part of my brain always nods and agrees Yes! Let's face our fears! Let's be bold and brave and daring! while the part of my brain that controls my actions sticks her fingers in her ears and ducks under the covers to hide until the thinking part of my brain gets distracted and wanders away. But the stakes are too high to do that now.
Friday, March 8, 2013
Wrong Is Me
We don't have cable at our house; we don't even have a TV. Our ancient cathode ray tube set gave up the ghost before we moved last fall, and when I asked my daughters if they wanted a TV, they said no. We do watch Netflix on occasion, and recently I've been watching Cesar Millan. That show is addictive. I could watch for hours.
Why? It's the old, old story: all about faith and hope and love and redemption.
I've been sorely in need of the faith and hope. In spite of that one moment, and subsequent minor victories (The mail carrier came to our door and My Bad Dog slept through it! We walked past a mail carrier who was only 15 feet away from us, and My Bad Dog didn't react at all! A FedEx truck passed us and she didn't lunge and bark!), I was feeling discouraged that the hard daily work of consistent discipline on walks and correcting her when she registered loud disapproval of landscape workers across the street, a real estate agent down the block, the Seventh Day Adventists who like to check in to see if we've changed our minds (we haven't) wasn't yielding consistent results.
She seemed better, then she seemed worse. She didn't bark, then she tried to eat the mail carrier/FedEx guy/school bus driver/elderly man with those enormous black sunglasses and the rather aggressive posture who doesn't like to share the sidewalk.
In watching Dog Whisperer episodes this time, though, I found hope once again fluttering in my breast. I always say I'm a repeat learner, and the repeated lesson here is that it's me, not My Bad Dog. I had thought and thought and thought and thought about why she was the way she was, and kept blaming her sad, sad past of having been a street dog, having been abandoned not once but twice. The conclusion I always came to was that she was the way she was because of her past. Then sometimes I would sort of get it that all right, so I was inadvertently allowing some dominant behaviors and failing to be a confident pack leader, and so My Bad Dog then tried to take that role.
I got it, but I didn't get it. I probably just didn't want to believe it was me. On Cesar's show, it's always obvious to the viewer that it's the owner's problem that fuels the dog's problem.
Maybe the reason for the inconsistent results was that even though I had some of the behaviors in place (for myself, I'm not talking about My Bad Dog, I mean that I learned not to let her walk ahead of me and not to let her put her paw on me, for example), I hadn't done the necessary emotional excavation that you see with the owners who become successful in rehabilitating their dogs. Also, I was still making some behavioral mistakes (e.g., letting her sniff and track while we walked instead of requiring her to walk directly forward with me).
We none of us humans enjoy admitting we're wrong. It took me a while, but now I'm at this place of being thrilled to admit that I am wrong, wrong, wrong if that will solve the problem.
My Mistake:
I had dreaded meetings with mail carriers/FedEd guys/teens in hoodies/elderly men with aggressive postures. Perhaps My Bad Dog sensed this dread and assumed that she needed to protect me from those dangers. My solution had been to avoid them, but that didn't work. It just made encounters worse when we had them.
What I'm Doing Instead:
I noticed that when Cesar worked with reactive dogs, he welcomed opportunities for the dogs to react in their typical manner because those were learning opportunities. Instead of avoiding such encounters, I needed to welcome them. This requires a certain amount of internal fortitude, but the great thing is that the more you do it, the easier it is.
Now we've have a few days of my embracing the outside world in its entirety, mail carriers and all. It gets dramatic and people do love to stare when they see me administering correction when My Bad Dog is leaping and lunging and barking.
The Result:
Today we were at what I used to think of as the Infernal Intersection because it had been the scene of many overreactions on the part of My Bad Dog. A big school bus rolled up from behind us, and My Bad Dog went crazy.
I gave her a firm "No!" (as opposed to a pleading or doubtful "No?") and each time she lunged, I gave a swift backward pull on the leash and the claw hand to the loose ruff around her neck--"claw hand" makes it sound meaner than it is, but there's no violence in it, nothing that causes her pain, and the reasons I know it doesn't cause her pain are that I'm not applying enough pressure to hurt her and that I know what she looks like when she is in pain, and that is not it. It does get her attention. She is used to my correcting her with ineffective words, and those are very easy for her to ignore. This she couldn't ignore. It was as if I had gone from saying "Blah blah blah blah, Sophie" to "Attention, soldier!" She calmed down and sat next to me at the intersection, EVEN THOUGH THE BUS WAS STILL THERE. Fantastic.
Then, because God likes a joke, I think, a little school bus pulled up in front of us on the cross street to turn right. My Bad Dog went crazy, and we went through the same routine, and she calmed down and sat down until our light changed, and then she walked sedately by my side while we crossed the street.
I'm so proud of My Good Dog.
And one of the best things about all of this is that it drives home for me what Cesar keeps saying about how dogs live in the moment, they don't live in the past. Sophie doesn't sigh for her lost puppyhood. She doesn't weep in remembrance of the wrongs done her. She reacts in the moment. Therein lie the hope, right? Every moment gives us a chance to react differently.
We met a school bus, My Good Dog reacted and got corrected, and then we went home, and the whole way, My Good Dog trotted happily and confidently at my side.
My Mistake:
I had dreaded meetings with mail carriers/FedEd guys/teens in hoodies/elderly men with aggressive postures. Perhaps My Bad Dog sensed this dread and assumed that she needed to protect me from those dangers. My solution had been to avoid them, but that didn't work. It just made encounters worse when we had them.
What I'm Doing Instead:
I noticed that when Cesar worked with reactive dogs, he welcomed opportunities for the dogs to react in their typical manner because those were learning opportunities. Instead of avoiding such encounters, I needed to welcome them. This requires a certain amount of internal fortitude, but the great thing is that the more you do it, the easier it is.
Now we've have a few days of my embracing the outside world in its entirety, mail carriers and all. It gets dramatic and people do love to stare when they see me administering correction when My Bad Dog is leaping and lunging and barking.
The Result:
Today we were at what I used to think of as the Infernal Intersection because it had been the scene of many overreactions on the part of My Bad Dog. A big school bus rolled up from behind us, and My Bad Dog went crazy.
I gave her a firm "No!" (as opposed to a pleading or doubtful "No?") and each time she lunged, I gave a swift backward pull on the leash and the claw hand to the loose ruff around her neck--"claw hand" makes it sound meaner than it is, but there's no violence in it, nothing that causes her pain, and the reasons I know it doesn't cause her pain are that I'm not applying enough pressure to hurt her and that I know what she looks like when she is in pain, and that is not it. It does get her attention. She is used to my correcting her with ineffective words, and those are very easy for her to ignore. This she couldn't ignore. It was as if I had gone from saying "Blah blah blah blah, Sophie" to "Attention, soldier!" She calmed down and sat next to me at the intersection, EVEN THOUGH THE BUS WAS STILL THERE. Fantastic.
Then, because God likes a joke, I think, a little school bus pulled up in front of us on the cross street to turn right. My Bad Dog went crazy, and we went through the same routine, and she calmed down and sat down until our light changed, and then she walked sedately by my side while we crossed the street.
I'm so proud of My Good Dog.
And one of the best things about all of this is that it drives home for me what Cesar keeps saying about how dogs live in the moment, they don't live in the past. Sophie doesn't sigh for her lost puppyhood. She doesn't weep in remembrance of the wrongs done her. She reacts in the moment. Therein lie the hope, right? Every moment gives us a chance to react differently.
We met a school bus, My Good Dog reacted and got corrected, and then we went home, and the whole way, My Good Dog trotted happily and confidently at my side.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
The Trouble with Fun
There's always a price tag, isn't there.
No more jumping for My Bad Dog. Wouldn't you know it, the athletics aggravated that hip problem to which dogs of a shepherd persuasion are prone, and she's been limping. She's been resting, not comfortably, and we've administering the anti-inflammatories.
Now she's depressed because she had two days of no walks, followed by a few days of only a short walk, rather than the daily hour to hour and a half to which she is accustomed.
My Bad Dog has a powerful presence in a room. When she's subdued, you can feel it. We all wish we could do something to cheer her up, but the only remedy is a good long walk (or a cat or squirrel to chase, or a gopher hole to dig in). To a person who says that dogs can't get depressed, I offer these signs of depression from the National Institute of Mental Health:
1. Persistent sad, anxious, or "empty" feelings
She doesn't speak English, so we can't verify her feelings, but she appears to be sad, with bouts of moping punctuated by bursts of short-lived ferocity toward the neighbor or the mail carrier.
2. Feelings of hopelessness or pessimism
Ditto previous.
3. Feelings of guilt, worthlessness, or helplessness
Makes sense. Not so much the guilt or worthlessness, but she's helpless to get out the door by herself, that's for sure.
4. Irritability, restlessness
Not so much the former, but definitely the latter. There's been more barking, and she's been click click clicking around the house in the middle of the night and whimpering to go out to chase--what? A possum? Maybe a raccoon?
5. Loss of interest in activities or hobbies once pleasurable...
My Bad Dog has no interest in her rope toy, refuses to play tug-of-war, won't chase a stick, and isn't even interested in chewing a ball.
6. Fatigue and decreased energy
Absolutely. All that moping is exhausting.
7. Difficulty concentrating, remembering details, and making decisions
Hard to tell, her schedule isn't exactly demanding.
8. Insomnia, early-morning wakefulness, or excessive sleeping
As described previously.
9.Overeating, or appetite loss
The latter. In fact, when I held out a treat, she sniffed it and then click click clicked away to lie down heavily on a rug and then sigh. She sighs a heartbreaking sigh.
10. Thoughts of suicide, suicide attempts
I hope not.
11. Aches or pains, headaches, cramps, or digestive problems that do not ease even with treatment.
Can't say on this one.
On the bright side, a few days ago, My Bad Dog and I encountered a young cat--just out of kittenhood, but not grown, sort of a gawky teen-ager. This cat had the supreme and utter fearlessness of one to whom nothing bad had ever happened. The cat approached us. I told My Bad Dog to sit, and she did, just barely, almost jumping out of her skin with the effort of restraining herself from giving chase. Not that the cat looked as if it would run.
The cat actually touched noses with My Bad Dog, but then, sensing the unseemly avidity of My Bad Dog's interest, the cat dashed into a hedge.
About a month ago, we had a similar meeting with a mouse. I'd decided that the mouse was either mentally deficient (God bless it, but if humans exhibit of range of intelligence, it makes sense animals would, too) or visually impaired, as the mouse emerged from an ivy patch, appeared to look directly at My Bad Dog, and then scampered toward us. The only thing that kept this from being My Bad Dog's Best Day Ever, Except for the Time She Chased the Cows was that I wouldn't let her chase the mouse when it realized its mistake and hurried back into the ivy.
No more jumping for My Bad Dog. Wouldn't you know it, the athletics aggravated that hip problem to which dogs of a shepherd persuasion are prone, and she's been limping. She's been resting, not comfortably, and we've administering the anti-inflammatories.
Now she's depressed because she had two days of no walks, followed by a few days of only a short walk, rather than the daily hour to hour and a half to which she is accustomed.
My Bad Dog has a powerful presence in a room. When she's subdued, you can feel it. We all wish we could do something to cheer her up, but the only remedy is a good long walk (or a cat or squirrel to chase, or a gopher hole to dig in). To a person who says that dogs can't get depressed, I offer these signs of depression from the National Institute of Mental Health:
1. Persistent sad, anxious, or "empty" feelings
She doesn't speak English, so we can't verify her feelings, but she appears to be sad, with bouts of moping punctuated by bursts of short-lived ferocity toward the neighbor or the mail carrier.
2. Feelings of hopelessness or pessimism
Ditto previous.
3. Feelings of guilt, worthlessness, or helplessness
Makes sense. Not so much the guilt or worthlessness, but she's helpless to get out the door by herself, that's for sure.
4. Irritability, restlessness
Not so much the former, but definitely the latter. There's been more barking, and she's been click click clicking around the house in the middle of the night and whimpering to go out to chase--what? A possum? Maybe a raccoon?
5. Loss of interest in activities or hobbies once pleasurable...
My Bad Dog has no interest in her rope toy, refuses to play tug-of-war, won't chase a stick, and isn't even interested in chewing a ball.
6. Fatigue and decreased energy
Absolutely. All that moping is exhausting.
7. Difficulty concentrating, remembering details, and making decisions
Hard to tell, her schedule isn't exactly demanding.
8. Insomnia, early-morning wakefulness, or excessive sleeping
As described previously.
9.Overeating, or appetite loss
The latter. In fact, when I held out a treat, she sniffed it and then click click clicked away to lie down heavily on a rug and then sigh. She sighs a heartbreaking sigh.
10. Thoughts of suicide, suicide attempts
I hope not.
11. Aches or pains, headaches, cramps, or digestive problems that do not ease even with treatment.
Can't say on this one.
On the bright side, a few days ago, My Bad Dog and I encountered a young cat--just out of kittenhood, but not grown, sort of a gawky teen-ager. This cat had the supreme and utter fearlessness of one to whom nothing bad had ever happened. The cat approached us. I told My Bad Dog to sit, and she did, just barely, almost jumping out of her skin with the effort of restraining herself from giving chase. Not that the cat looked as if it would run.
The cat actually touched noses with My Bad Dog, but then, sensing the unseemly avidity of My Bad Dog's interest, the cat dashed into a hedge.
About a month ago, we had a similar meeting with a mouse. I'd decided that the mouse was either mentally deficient (God bless it, but if humans exhibit of range of intelligence, it makes sense animals would, too) or visually impaired, as the mouse emerged from an ivy patch, appeared to look directly at My Bad Dog, and then scampered toward us. The only thing that kept this from being My Bad Dog's Best Day Ever, Except for the Time She Chased the Cows was that I wouldn't let her chase the mouse when it realized its mistake and hurried back into the ivy.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Light Bulb
I refuse to use the O Magazine jargon and call it an aha! moment. More like a hahahahaha moment, anyway.
I'd been watching Cesar Millan interviews and show excerpts. Mr. Millan has plenty of critics who say that he is cruel and his methods outdated. Others swear by him.
What does that all mean? I don't know. What I know is that when I went to take My Bad Dog for an evening walk, I remembered how in one interview, Cesar had mimicked how Americans--and especially American ladies--talk to their dogs, using pleading, almost whining voices, repeating commands with a pitch that gets higher and higher. I decided I would give a command once, and then show My Bad Dog by my impassivity that I was serious. I could wait her out. I have two teen-agers. I have practice in waiting. I am highly skilled in waiting. I hate waiting more than anything, but I'm good at it.
And wouldn't you know, that resolution changed everything. I stood at the door with the leash, told My Bad Dog to sit, and then I waited. Sometimes she sits immediately. Sometimes I remind her to sit by putting gentle pressure on her back. This time, I just looked at her.
She walked in a circle, looked away, looked back at me. I stayed exactly where I was and did nothing. She sat, and I put on the leash. Then I told her to wait while I opened the door.
Shenanigans ensued. She didn't jump or bolt, but she did rise and move toward the door. I held up my hand in the gesture she understands to mean wait or stay, and then I waited, and then she stayed.
Repeat the above for what happened while I locked the door.
And then on the walk, My Bad Dog behaved perfectly 90% of the time. During the remaining 10%, she did not behave badly, but she did step ahead of me--not pulling on the leash, not chasing cats nor mail carriers, not being aggressive in any way--and I just stopped walking, stood still, and waited. Every time she circled back, took her place by my side, and waited for me before she started walking again.
It was as if I somehow understood that the way to get My Bad Dog to do what I wanted was to believe that she would do what I wanted and to act in that belief. Not asking her, not coercing her or pleading with her or bullying her in any way. I don't even know how to explain it; I felt different, and I talked to her differently.
Or rather, I hardly spoke to her. Poor My Bad Dog. I really talk to her far more, I think, than interests her, but she is generally polite about it. After seeing Cesar mimic American Lady dogspeak, I got so bored with the sound of my voice. I'd taught My Bad Dog every command in voice and hand signal, so there was no reason to keep up with all the blah blah blah blah. Maybe she behaved well out of gratitude for the gorgeous silence.
When my daughters came home, My Bad Dog and I performed a demo. My daughters were impressed, or at least they said they were, and that's enough for me.
We'll keep working and we'll see how it goes.
On the Cesar front: This video I found disturbing. I can't imagine kicking My Bad Dog.
On the other hand, there are probably many who would tell me how cruel I was to use a pinch (prong, training) collar on My Bad Dog. What defense do I have? A dog trainer told me to use it. My Bad Dog was uncontrollable without it. But then it backfired--and I learned that indeed, it did hurt her. Besides, today when I was watching all these interviews, I thought that I would like to find a way to inspire My Bad Dog to want to do as I asked. I don't want her to walk well on the leash just because she is afraid I will yank on her collar or say no in a strict voice. I want her to walk well with me because she wants to.
In their anger against Cesar and his techniques, some of these anti-Cesar trainers insist that Mr. Millan's whole philosophy is nonsense, but I think they're wrong when they dismiss the importance of approaching a dog with what Mr. Millan calls calm-assertive energy. I know that my dog shows anxiety when I'm anxious. Besides, even if you can't measure or even satisfactorily define what he means by energy, we all know it's there.
Also on the other hand, not that I am defending the kicking, but unless someone has successfully rehabilitated a dog like My Bad Dog, a dog that has bitten at least three people (that I know of--one on my watch and two during the previous owner's, though I expect it's likely the bite count is higher), a dog that when she sees a mail carrier goes into a ferocious state that would frighten any normal person--well, that person doesn't get to offer me advice about how best to rehabilitate My Bad Dog.
I'd been watching Cesar Millan interviews and show excerpts. Mr. Millan has plenty of critics who say that he is cruel and his methods outdated. Others swear by him.
What does that all mean? I don't know. What I know is that when I went to take My Bad Dog for an evening walk, I remembered how in one interview, Cesar had mimicked how Americans--and especially American ladies--talk to their dogs, using pleading, almost whining voices, repeating commands with a pitch that gets higher and higher. I decided I would give a command once, and then show My Bad Dog by my impassivity that I was serious. I could wait her out. I have two teen-agers. I have practice in waiting. I am highly skilled in waiting. I hate waiting more than anything, but I'm good at it.
And wouldn't you know, that resolution changed everything. I stood at the door with the leash, told My Bad Dog to sit, and then I waited. Sometimes she sits immediately. Sometimes I remind her to sit by putting gentle pressure on her back. This time, I just looked at her.
She walked in a circle, looked away, looked back at me. I stayed exactly where I was and did nothing. She sat, and I put on the leash. Then I told her to wait while I opened the door.
Shenanigans ensued. She didn't jump or bolt, but she did rise and move toward the door. I held up my hand in the gesture she understands to mean wait or stay, and then I waited, and then she stayed.
Repeat the above for what happened while I locked the door.
And then on the walk, My Bad Dog behaved perfectly 90% of the time. During the remaining 10%, she did not behave badly, but she did step ahead of me--not pulling on the leash, not chasing cats nor mail carriers, not being aggressive in any way--and I just stopped walking, stood still, and waited. Every time she circled back, took her place by my side, and waited for me before she started walking again.
It was as if I somehow understood that the way to get My Bad Dog to do what I wanted was to believe that she would do what I wanted and to act in that belief. Not asking her, not coercing her or pleading with her or bullying her in any way. I don't even know how to explain it; I felt different, and I talked to her differently.
Or rather, I hardly spoke to her. Poor My Bad Dog. I really talk to her far more, I think, than interests her, but she is generally polite about it. After seeing Cesar mimic American Lady dogspeak, I got so bored with the sound of my voice. I'd taught My Bad Dog every command in voice and hand signal, so there was no reason to keep up with all the blah blah blah blah. Maybe she behaved well out of gratitude for the gorgeous silence.
When my daughters came home, My Bad Dog and I performed a demo. My daughters were impressed, or at least they said they were, and that's enough for me.
We'll keep working and we'll see how it goes.
On the Cesar front: This video I found disturbing. I can't imagine kicking My Bad Dog.
On the other hand, there are probably many who would tell me how cruel I was to use a pinch (prong, training) collar on My Bad Dog. What defense do I have? A dog trainer told me to use it. My Bad Dog was uncontrollable without it. But then it backfired--and I learned that indeed, it did hurt her. Besides, today when I was watching all these interviews, I thought that I would like to find a way to inspire My Bad Dog to want to do as I asked. I don't want her to walk well on the leash just because she is afraid I will yank on her collar or say no in a strict voice. I want her to walk well with me because she wants to.
In their anger against Cesar and his techniques, some of these anti-Cesar trainers insist that Mr. Millan's whole philosophy is nonsense, but I think they're wrong when they dismiss the importance of approaching a dog with what Mr. Millan calls calm-assertive energy. I know that my dog shows anxiety when I'm anxious. Besides, even if you can't measure or even satisfactorily define what he means by energy, we all know it's there.
Also on the other hand, not that I am defending the kicking, but unless someone has successfully rehabilitated a dog like My Bad Dog, a dog that has bitten at least three people (that I know of--one on my watch and two during the previous owner's, though I expect it's likely the bite count is higher), a dog that when she sees a mail carrier goes into a ferocious state that would frighten any normal person--well, that person doesn't get to offer me advice about how best to rehabilitate My Bad Dog.
Monday, January 28, 2013
Upward and Onward
A friend is a behavioral specialist with a school district. As you can imagine, her knowledge of behavior has been valuable through the years in settings domestic, professional, and social.
Long ago, after I had complained of some habit of my daughters that drove me round the bend and my friend had helped me devise some manner of encouraging a change in their behavior, my friend warned me of the extinction burst, or the temporary increase of undesired behavior that occurs after the commencement of efforts to extinguish the behavior. The temper tantrum is a good example; when you ignore a tantrum, it may increase in volume and intensity before (finally!) fading to mere sniffing and whimpering.
You can read a more thorough description here.
My Bad Dog and I went for a thirty-minutes-longer-than-usual walk yesterday morning. During daylight hours, because Sunday is, blissfully and thanks be to an all-merciful Divinity, a day of rest for mail carriers and FedEx drivers. At the park, I thought it would be fun to try to teach My Bad Dog to jump up and walk the length of the bleachers.
Say what you will of My Bad Dog, but in terms of tricks, she is what my grandmother would have called a quick study. She understood immediately what I wanted her to do, and she did it, over and over. We tried benches, the narrow brick raised border of a yard, and the low planks by the tennis courts, and My Bad Dog confidently trotted the length of each.
She was exhausted when we got home. My daughters and I noticed how little she barked the rest of the day, just a few times at our neighbor, who has the gall to enter and depart his home without asking My Bad Dog's permission, and once to reprimand the driver who parked in front of our house with what must have been criminal intent. Then again, it was Sunday. Not only were there no mail carriers, but the street was quieter than usual.
Today, we again took a longer than usual walk and again worked at plank-walking (in addition to gopher-hunting and squirrel-sighting). My Bad Dog was so tired that she slept through the arrival of the mail carrier, waking only after he'd dropped off the mail and was almost out of the yard. Even then, she didn't bark. Five minutes later, the mail carrier drove past our house and although My Bad Dog signaled her continued deep and abiding interest in his activities by intently looking out the window, she did not bark. Nor did she bark at the high school track team that ran by on their way up to the hills, nor at the garbage truck.
At this point, either her restraint gave way or she reached down deep for inner resources, and she registered her loud disapproval of the man across the street. What he did to annoy her, I don't know, maybe he committed the unforgivable offense of getting out of his car.
I'm not sure I have the pure-hearted faith to believe that what happened Saturday was an extinction burst. It seems more likely that Cesar Millan may be right (about the exercise thing, anyway, at least for My Bad Dog; I've never tried alpha rolling, which is a subject of vigorous debate, although My Bad Dog often does of her own volition roll over on her back, in which position she looks about as dangerous as a teacup Yorkie (not this teacup Yorkie).
In any case, the decrease in My Bad Dog's ferocity is powerful reinforcement to take longer walks each morning. I seem to be responding well to training.
Links
Daily Kos
Dog Whisperer
National Geo Wild: Cesar's Way
Paws Across America
You Are Not So Smart: A Celebration of Self-Delusion
Long ago, after I had complained of some habit of my daughters that drove me round the bend and my friend had helped me devise some manner of encouraging a change in their behavior, my friend warned me of the extinction burst, or the temporary increase of undesired behavior that occurs after the commencement of efforts to extinguish the behavior. The temper tantrum is a good example; when you ignore a tantrum, it may increase in volume and intensity before (finally!) fading to mere sniffing and whimpering.
You can read a more thorough description here.
My Bad Dog and I went for a thirty-minutes-longer-than-usual walk yesterday morning. During daylight hours, because Sunday is, blissfully and thanks be to an all-merciful Divinity, a day of rest for mail carriers and FedEx drivers. At the park, I thought it would be fun to try to teach My Bad Dog to jump up and walk the length of the bleachers.
Say what you will of My Bad Dog, but in terms of tricks, she is what my grandmother would have called a quick study. She understood immediately what I wanted her to do, and she did it, over and over. We tried benches, the narrow brick raised border of a yard, and the low planks by the tennis courts, and My Bad Dog confidently trotted the length of each.
She was exhausted when we got home. My daughters and I noticed how little she barked the rest of the day, just a few times at our neighbor, who has the gall to enter and depart his home without asking My Bad Dog's permission, and once to reprimand the driver who parked in front of our house with what must have been criminal intent. Then again, it was Sunday. Not only were there no mail carriers, but the street was quieter than usual.
Today, we again took a longer than usual walk and again worked at plank-walking (in addition to gopher-hunting and squirrel-sighting). My Bad Dog was so tired that she slept through the arrival of the mail carrier, waking only after he'd dropped off the mail and was almost out of the yard. Even then, she didn't bark. Five minutes later, the mail carrier drove past our house and although My Bad Dog signaled her continued deep and abiding interest in his activities by intently looking out the window, she did not bark. Nor did she bark at the high school track team that ran by on their way up to the hills, nor at the garbage truck.
At this point, either her restraint gave way or she reached down deep for inner resources, and she registered her loud disapproval of the man across the street. What he did to annoy her, I don't know, maybe he committed the unforgivable offense of getting out of his car.
I'm not sure I have the pure-hearted faith to believe that what happened Saturday was an extinction burst. It seems more likely that Cesar Millan may be right (about the exercise thing, anyway, at least for My Bad Dog; I've never tried alpha rolling, which is a subject of vigorous debate, although My Bad Dog often does of her own volition roll over on her back, in which position she looks about as dangerous as a teacup Yorkie (not this teacup Yorkie).
In any case, the decrease in My Bad Dog's ferocity is powerful reinforcement to take longer walks each morning. I seem to be responding well to training.
Links
Daily Kos
Dog Whisperer
National Geo Wild: Cesar's Way
Paws Across America
You Are Not So Smart: A Celebration of Self-Delusion
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Backslider
The last few days have been very rainy in the dark hours, and so we had shorter morning walks than usual. One day there was no walk because I was loathe to walk in the pouring down rain. This morning I woke late, having been out late celebrating the birthday of a friend, and decided that I would walk My Bad Dog in the sunshine, come what may, mail carrier or no, FedEx driver or no. My Bad Dog needed a walk, and I would walk her, full steam ahead and damn the torpedoes.
With a firm grasp on the leash (mine) and a spring in the step (hers), we set off. The first few blocks were uneventful, which I would have enjoyed except the uneventfulness was punctuated by My Bad Dog's experiments in overstepping her bounds, which meant that every few steps I had to stop and tell her to go back to her place by my side.
That was annoying, but nowhere near as annoying as what happened at the intersection. As we waited for the light to change, we noticed a FedEx truck. My Bad Dog became restive, I admonished her, and then she suddenly took offense at a minivan next to us. Once I had her calmed down from that, she started to think that she didn't like the look of the border collie across the street, either.
I walked her away from the intersection, the light changed, the border collie and his people approached us, but the border collie's people then decided that discretion was a wiser course, and so they suddenly crossed the street away from us, the FedEx truck drove on, and--wouldn't you know it--a mail carrier truck took its place opposite us (we hadn't been able to cross earlier because of the FedEx truck and then the border collie).
Backward we went, into the
We went on to the park, walking side by side, not speaking, like a married couple silently arguing. My Bad Dog briefly indicated her disapproval of a passing Rhodesian ridgeback, but I let her know nothing interested me less than her opinion about anything, really, but especially about a dog or a mail carrier, and we kept walking through the neighborhood to the park, where My Bad Dog became transfixed by the squirrels in the pine trees, so she walked forward with her nose skyward, which was funny, because once she tripped over a fallen branch and I am just mean enough to have laughed at her, but then on our way back through to the park, we walked where all the eucalyptus trees are, and flitting amidst the trees were hundreds of Monarch butterflies and it was so beautiful to see the black and orange butterflies flying and gliding in circles that I almost forgot I was still mad at My Bad Dog.
To maintain hope that My Bad Dog will rehabilitate and faith that she is able to is probably crucial to the success of this venture, and yet such maintenance is not easy when the improvements are slight, slow in coming, and quick in diminishing.
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