Bones Would Rain from the Sky: Deepening Our Relationships with Dogs (10 page)

interested in how two work together on a
specific task as I am in how they are together in the
in-between moments, when no focus or goal drives
or shapes their behavior. Focus on a
task-especially one that is enjoyable or so demanding
that attention is literally consumed by the effort
required-can conceal a great deal and give the false
impression that all is well. Don't show me what
your dog can do when you give him a command; just show me
how you and he walk down the street together, and I'll
know much more.
When a high degree of quality exists, it is
unmistakable. There is attentiveness that flows between
the two partners, a mutuality and respect that is
evident in everything they do. Simple gestures
reveal a world and say more than we may realize about
a relationship. And whether we do so consciously or
not, we look at the quality of connection itself
to evaluate the relationships we see around us. What
I see in a dog and person walking together is a
rough blueprint for the relationship, a brief
overview of the quality of the connection between person and
dog. I do not pretend or assume that these
glimpses into how people and dogs walk together is
indicative of the whole relationship. But long
experience has taught me that this is a
surprisingly reliable predictor for what else will
be revealed as I learn more about the relationship.
"How can you judge the connection between dog and person
based on just that?" the reader protests. "All you are
seeing is the dog when he's excited, going somewhere
new, stimulated by the new setting or other dogs
or the activity around him."
And I would answer, "Yes, that is precisely
what I am seeing, along with how the human in the
equation deals with the dog in that situation, how the dog and
person work together."
A client, Margaret, arrives at the farm for a
consultation with her fifteen-month-old German
Shepherd, Luger. On the phone she has told
me about their difficulties in working in a class
situation, how her dog barks and lunges at other
dogs, and how inconsistent he is in his obedience work
despite his considerable intelligence and athletic
ability. When she can get his attention, he's cooperative, but
keeping his attention on her is difficult. She
has high hopes for Luger, but she needs help
dealing with these training problems.

I stand on the porch, watching as she opens
the car door. Luger lunges for the opening, but
Margaret is prepared for this. She deftly catches
the dog by the collar and wrestles him back into the car,
using her body to block his escape route while she
puts on his leash. It appears that she's quite
practiced in these maneuvers. The word "stay"
drifts to me; though it is muffled the first few times,
by the tenth time the volume has been turned up, and
I'm pretty sure I've heard it correctly.
At last she steps back, and a black-and-tan
bullet shoots from the car, nose to the ground and moving
fast. Dragged along behind him like unwanted baggage
is Margaret, fighting to stay on her feet and
control Luger at the same time.
"He's awfully excited about being here!" she calls
to me as Luger tows her along on his exploration of the
front yard. Eventually, Luger is bored with the
yard and, lacking anything better to do, turns his
attention to Margaret, who leads him to the front
steps where I have been sitting for the last few
minutes. I mention to Margaret that he is an
extremely handsome dog, and she beams at this
compliment. I add that I can see that she does indeed
have a problem getting his attention. At this moment, the
big dog chooses this moment to return to the
car, pulling his owner sideways so sharply that I have
the impression of an owl turning its head to me as
Margaret looks over her shoulder and asks, in all
seriousness, "What makes you say that? You haven't
even seen him work yet."
Connection is not created through proximity (otherwise
everyone on a crowded elevator would become fast
friends), though we do use proximity as a
substitute for connection, just as we substitute
holding a child's hand or holding a dog's leash for
actually paying attention to them. Truth be told, we
often substitute a leash for attentiveness to our
canine companions. Consequently, dogs also
substitute a leash for attentiveness to us. In
essence, we eliminate the need for any deep
attentiveness on our part while also inadvertently
teaching the dog that he need not really pay much attention
to us-we're right there at the end of the lead. This does not
seem to be a terribly bad situation. The dog is
safely restrained, and both we and our dogs may
move along in some semblance of togetherness.
But in the seemingly harmless act of

tethering a dog to us and setting off for a walk
"together" in this strained fashion, we have already begun
to undermine the relationship itself. We have already chosen
less quality for the connection between ourselves and our dogs.
Ultimately, this choice may come to haunt us at
a later time, in moments of far greater intensity and
importance than simply walking together. Think of it
like this: In allowing our dogs to pull us along, we
are practicing, over and over and over, the quality of
disconnection. We really have no right to be surprised
when in other situations, when we really want or
desperately need the dog to be fully connected and
attentive to us, he's a bit out of practice.
A healthy relationship maintains a fairly even
degree of quality no matter what the
circumstances. We'd all look strangely at
someone who said that their husband was a very well-behaved
man at home but just too excited out in public
to act politely. We'd be skeptical of parents
who assured us that while at the park they might
appear careless and disconnected from their children, they were very
attentive to their kids' needs at home. If there
are noticeable variances in the quality of connection
between you and your dog depending on the situation or
circumstances, your relationship may not be as strong as
it could be.
Mutual attention-dog to handler, handler to dog-should
serve as the first and most powerful connection in all
situations. This takes time to create through training and a
diligent practicing of attentiveness; a leash can
serve as a safety net along the way to handle the
bobbles that will inevitably occur, maybe even as a
way to begin a conversation that requires no words.
Perhaps our language needs to shift so that we no
longer "walk the dog" but rather choose very
deliberately, with loving attentiveness, to "walk
with the dog."
And don't forget-the dog has his own point of
view. Interviewed, he might report that at
home, you give him loving, careful attention but that out
in the world, you are highly distracted, even excitable,
and he finds taking you out in public a very tiring
experience. Leaning close, his voice low so you
don't overhear him, he might whisper to us, "And,
gosh, you ought to see how she pulls on that leash!"

There are no shortcuts to any place worth going.
Anonymous

Having to go back to the basics is not fun for anyone.
What I have always hated in any game and in life was

the move that required me to go all the way
back to the start and begin again. If I could stand on my
head and sing "Ave Maria" backward in Cherokee
as atonement, I'd rather do it than return to the
beginning. Having to begin again, trying to fill in the
gaps left on your first trip-well, it's not something
anyone I know enjoys. Why, we ask, can't I just
fix it from here? We point to how much we've already
accomplished, how far we've already come, and wonder
why we have to back up so very far. But the truth is,
sometimes you have to back way up, right to the beginning, where
the root of a problem lies, and as musicians say,
"take it from the top."
Understanding the dismay that accompanies receipt of the
"Start Again" card, I had understood why Kate,
who had driven a long, long way for a consultation,
had looked at me with disbelief and a touch of
irritation. She found it hard to believe that she was
sitting in my kitchen and being told that one of the keys
to her dog's behavior problems is that he pulls
on leash.
Kate had worked carefully to train her young dog,
Angel, since early puppyhood, and he knew
how to do many things. But his behavior was worrying her.
She had brought him to me because of the intensity with which he
focused on things he found interesting.
Sometimes, the intensity escalated into near hysteria,
with Angel leaping wildly at the end of the lead and
screaming. On a few occasions, he had broken
away from her to chase another dog; though he did not do any
harm, the intensity of his pursuit alarmed Kate.
Angel is a dog she raised and handpicked as her
next performance dog. His behavior embarrasses and
scares her; she is afraid that he is
aggressive, out of control, unfit to perform as she
hopes he might.
Ready to learn new techniques, willing
to implement even a long, involved training regimen,
she was speechless when I told her that she first needed
to step back and work on the very foundation of their connection.
She had to master the simple act of truly being with
him whenever they were together, and insisting-gently,
quietly-that he also be with her. If she did not have his
mind, I told her, she could only hope to control
or at least restrain his body. But if she could stay
connected to him and help him learn to stay connected

to her, anything was possible within the limits of
their joint skills and abilities.
"Oh, come on. I can't even count how many dogs
I know that pull whenever they're excited. Lots of
them are much worse about it than Angel, but they
don't act like he does. I don't see how you can
say that contributes to his behavior problems."
Kate was frowning slightly, her jaw set in
disagreement.
Brilliant, highly responsive, Angel is
like many dogs I have worked with-dogs reactive to even
minute changes in the world around them, desirable
qualities in a working dog. But his keen
intelligence is a double-edged sword: almost
instantly responsive to a handler's gesture or
command, but equally responsive to other stimuli in his
environment, including the ones Kate might wish he
would ignore. Such dogs are like Mazeratis,
beautiful and fast, but they need to be driven with care
and precision. With maturity, experience and training,
such dogs learn to be selectively responsive,
turning their attention to appropriate matters, but
Angel was young. He was also impulsive,
emotional, volatile. For him, the intense
excitement of a training class, Kate's fearful
apprehension that he might attack another
dog and his own considerable intelligence were proving to be
a difficult combination.
Allowing him to pull excitedly on the lead had some
unwanted effects: First, Angel's arousal
level escalated. Kate simply hung on for the
ride, excusing the pulling behavior as something that just
happened when her dog was excited. With each step,
Angel's excitement built, so
that by the time they actually reached the class or
practice grounds or even a nearby park where
dogs might be playing, he was already aroused to a high
degree. By acting as little more than his anchor, Kate
had also abandoned any position of leadership, an
abdication that did not go unnoticed by the dog. They
would arrive at their destination with Angel's heart
rate racing and his adrenaline level already high. From
a purely physiological perspective, he was
well primed to respond to the stimuli of other dogs
running. He would stand watching, his excitement growing
with each minute, and would soon forget that Kate was
even with him. When at last he reached critical
mass, he exploded in a frenzy of barking, yelping
and leaping, a display that many students in the class

interpreted as aggressive behavior.
Unable to connect with his mind, Kate had no option
left but to drag his body away, frustrated by his
behavior, embarrassed and disappointed. Pulling on
lead is the spark that starts the embers glowing; everything
else that happens is fuel poured on that tiny fire
until it is blazing out of control.
I could see the disbelief in Kate's face as I
told her that it is here, in the quality of connection,
that problems begin or are dealt with, though we will
employ a variety of techniques to accomplish this.
But first, helping Angel would require a shift in
her understanding at a deep, almost philosophical
level, and it would require a commitment to being with him
and insisting, gently but relentlessly, that he be with her.
In even the tiniest steps, she needed to create the
quality of connection she wants. There is no way
to leapfrog the "unimportant" moments and reserve
your full attention for only the "important" times,
no more than a builder can create a beautiful house
without a solid foundation. In countless ways, some that will
seem insignificant at the time, she needed
to build the relationship. Kate was not convinced, but she
was polite and agreed (though without conviction) to think
about this and give it a try. I could see that talk was
getting me nowhere, and I silently asked
Angel to help me show Kate what I meant.
Putting on his leash, we went outside for a walk.
Accustomed to pulling as he pleased, Angel was
surprised when I began to insist that he not pull.
Since it takes two to pull (ever see a dog
pulling off leash?), I didn't give him anything
to pull against. Each time the leash grew taut, I
gave a gentle tug and then released all tension.
At first, he paid no attention to me. This was not
unreasonable-we had, after all, just met. Though
politely friendly, the dog had no reason to believe
that I was of any great interest or concern. To expect
him to respond to any direction from me would have been as
arrogant as my shaking hands with someone I just met and
then giving her orders on how to behave or act.
We had no relationship. How then could I find a
way to connect with this dog? I needed a way to become
someone worth working with, someone interesting and fun.
Taking advantage of his love of movement, I
called his name and raced away, never letting the leash
go tight. I allowed him to just catch up to me before I
spun away from him and ran the other way.
As his intensity grew, I allowed him to "catch"
me and offered praise and some delicious treats before
we began again. He found this a delightful game and
soon responded happily and quickly to my calling his
name. Soon, I was hard-pressed to outmaneuver
him-he kept a close eye on where I was and what
I was doing, hopeful that I might start the game
again. Now we had a connection, although a fragile
one, and we resumed our walk. I was still insistent that
he not pull, and when I felt as if I had lost
him, I danced away, calling him, asking him
to reconnect with me. It worked, but not in a smooth,
unbroken way. In a series of advances and
retreats, it took us nearly ten minutes to go a
few hundred feet.