Bones Would Rain from the Sky: Deepening Our Relationships with Dogs (4 page)

But finding our way to such a relationship is not easy.
And even if we've been there before, as Wendy had with
Mel, we cannot take the same path when we begin
another journey with another dog. Each relationship
walks its own way. Complicating matters even
further, Wendy's relationship with Mel was a blessing,
a gift of grace, not the result of knowledge or
deliberate choice on Wendy's part. While such
relationships are powerful and take us to a point of
connection we may not have dreamed possible, we may be
in for a rude awakening when we find ourselves back at
the first step, with a new dog at our side, and not
sure how to get where we want to go. We've been
there, and we think we know the way; and then, when we're
the ones who must set the course and choose the path,
we realize that we've not done this before. While we have
been where we want to go again, we realize with
humility and gratitude that it was the old soul of a
dog like Mel who had carried us safely there. And
now, we need to find our own way.
in search of what Is possible
Though she had enjoyed the beginner's class,
Wendy had become increasingly uneasy with what she
saw in the more advanced training. It was common to see
dogs being dragged across the room by their collars or
shouted at or jerked off their feet with fierce leash
corrections. Unwilling to cio this to her dog
despite the instructors' adamant "this is how it
must be done," Wendy began to attend classes
only intermittently, using the situation to work with
Chance as she wanted to, trying not to see what was
happening to the dogs around her.
The night came when Wendy could no longer ignore
what she saw. In disbelief and horror, she and
Chance watched as the instructor pinched a young dog's
ear to force the dog to open her mouth and accept a
dumbbell, a common technique in use for many
decades and hotly defended by those who use it as the
only reliable method for training a dog
to retrieve on command. In her pain and confusion, the
dog only tightened
her jaws and fought to get free. Declaring the dog to be
particularly stubborn, the trainer instructed the
dog's owner to help her in a "stereo" ear pinch,
meaning that while the trainer pinched one ear, the
handler would be doing the same to the other ear. The dog
screamed in protest, struggling to get away, but the
trainer did not stop until-after many minutes comthe
dog went limp. Looking at this sweet dog who
now lay dazed, eyes filled with fear and pain,
Wendy felt sick. She looked down at Chance
to promise him that she would never do that to him, no
matter what. As her dog raised his eyes to hers,
she saw an immense sadness in his face. Within her
head, she heard him ask clearly, "Why are we
here?" It was a very good question, and Wendy knew the
answer. She never again returned to that training
class.
Although Chance had already earned his first obedience title,
Wendy-unable to find a trainer whose approach felt
comfortable and right to her-had lost interest in formal
obedience training. But she was still deeply worried about
Chance's tendency to bolt. Each time he had run
away, she could see that his mind and body were no longer
connected. His eyes were flat, empty, his body
moving in panicked flight from whatever had upset
him. Until he calmed down, he would not return
to her unless she or someone managed to catch him.
Each time he ran away, Wendy knew his life was
in danger; living in suburbia, it was only
a matter of time before he was hit by a car and injured
or killed. Concerned for his safety, Wendy had
tried everything that had been suggested by various trainers
but with no success. At times, Chance still ran as though
his life depended on it. Although her experience in
training class had left her shaken and distrustful of
trainers in general, she sought out a well-known
trainer and author who promised a "motivational"
approach. After briefly working with Chance, the trainer
told Wendy that an electric shock collar was the
only solution that might save his life.
Reluctantly, Wendy agreed.
The private lesson began innocently enough. The
trainer carefully fitted the shock collar to Chance's
neck, then suggested that they wait for half an hour
or so for the dog to forget about this new collar before they
worked with him in a large, fenced-in field. As they
waited, Wendy noticed that even though nothing much had
happened yet, Chance was already showing signs of feeling
stressed. His ears, normally pricked with interest
His in his world, were held flattened sideways in a
position she thought of as "airplane ears." This was not
a good sign. Out in the field, he became
even more apprehensive when Wendy removed the leash
as the trainer directed and, leaving Chance on a sit
stay, walked roughly twenty feet away.
"Call him," the trainer said, and Wendy did, but
even as the words left her mouth, she knew her dog
was no longer in his mind. His eyes went blank in that
all-too-familiar way. Ears now folded back
tightly against his head, Chance bolted past Wendy and
began to run in frantic loops along the field's
fence.
"Call him again!" the trainer urged, but Wendy's
command did not register on the dog, who ran on and
on. The trainer hit the button on the remote
transmitter that sent a signal to the collar. When
the shock registered, Chance leaped off the ground,
screaming and snarling in surprise and pain, twisting in
the air as he tried desperately to bite at the
collar itself. Noting, "He probably can't hear you
over himself," the trainer told Wendy to call him again
and again, but nothing penetrated Chance's terror. At
that moment, Wendy's heart spoke up loud and
clear: This is not what you do to a dog you love. No
longer caring what the trainer had to say, Wendy moved
to catch the frantic dog in her arms. Only then
did the trainer take her thumb off the
button-she had been sending shocks to Chance all that
time.
"Well, that should fry his little brain," the trainer
noted with satisfaction, adding that he might need a
"tune-up" session as a reminder in a few
months. She pointed out how successful this training
session had been. Indeed, Chance now stood
anxiously watching Wendy, afraid to let her
move more than a few feet from him. It was true that
the bolting behavior had disappeared; what was not
evident in that moment was the new behavior that had
taken its place. After that session, Chance was
unwilling to stay in any position for any reason,
even if Wendy went no farther than the end of a
six-foot lead. For months afterward, Wendy had
to return to the baby steps of puppy training
to rebuild the confidence destroyed in just a few
wretched minutes. Worse still, when Chance was able
to once again successfully hold his stays, the bolting
behavior reappeared with a vengeance. But now he would
bolt in almost any situation, and without showing any of the
early warning signs that had previously alerted
Wendy to a potential problem.

More than two years later, they stood in my training
field, the cumulative weight of mistakes and
misunderstanding heavy between them. Riddled with guilt for
what she had allowed to happen, Wendy had slowly
resigned herself to the fact that Chance was going to have a
limited life. Only the gentle insistence of a
mutual friend had convinced her that I might be able
to help without hurting Chance in any way. After
attending one of my seminars to watch me work, Wendy
had agreed.
Watching Chance and Wendy as we walked out to my
training field, I had no doubt that she loved her
dog and that he loved her. But I knew from a
lifetime of mistakes with animals that love alone
was not always enough to carry someone where they longed to be. I
understood how bewildering it was to stand lost at the end of a
road that had been taken in good faith, each turn
made in hope, every step fueled by a deep desire
to get someplace that looked nothing at all like this
unexpected destination. The road she had taken was a
road whose twists and turns I knew all too
well. But I also knew the way back. And I
knew that all Wendy needed to find her own way
back to where she had meant to go all along was contained
in one simple phrase:
What is possible between a human and an animal is
possible only within a relationship.
The relationship between Wendy and Chance had been
damaged, not destroyed; without repair, the damage
would forever limit what was possible between them. The
restoration of trust and joy that had once flowed between
them began when I asked her to see the world through
Chance's eyes. He was simply a dog, and for all
his intelligence, his understanding of his world was shaped by what
the person he loved and trusted had done and allowed
to happen. He did not understand good intentions. He
did not realize that her mistakes had been the
result of misplaced faith in trainers. He
knew only that there was no joy left in working with her,
that she had repeatedly ignored or misunderstood what
he told her when he lay on the ground in mute
resignation or when he fled fearfully away, pushed
beyond his limits. In every way he could, Chance had
told her how he felt, but she had not heard him.
He was simply a dog, and he had no way
to solve this. He was left only with his prayers.
Once, perhaps, he had prayed to be heard; now he
prayed for escape.

Gently, for I had been in the same place
where this sad, sweet woman now stood, I asked,
"If you were Chance and all that you just described had
happened to you, would you feel safe? Would you trust your
person? Would you look forward with joy and anticipation
to working together? Would you want to be in a relationship like
this?"
Her face sagged as she shook her head. For a long
moment, she stared at her feet, then raising her
head, looked me in the eye: "I love my dog.
I never wanted to hurt him. I just wanted to train
him, give him freedom. And I trusted that those
damn trainers knew more than I did." She
paused, struggling not to. cry. Taking a deep
breath, she asked, "What do I do now?"
To reclaim the trust that had been lost, Wendy and
Chance were going to have to learn new ways to work together. In
everything she did, she had a choice: She could either
support and enhance the relationship with her dog, or
undermine it. She would need to learn to see the world from her
dog's perspective, so that she could understand how and why
her actions either dimmed or encouraged the light in his
eyes. With consideration for the differences between herself and a
dog, she needed to treat Chance as she would want to be
treated, with the loving respect she would treat any
beloved friend. Communication would improve when
she learned to say what she meant in ways the dog
could understand, when she was able to listen to what Chance told
her in his body language and responses. Her
dog would never lie to her, but she had to learn to trust
that what he told her was his truth at that moment.
Everything she did with Chance had to be guided by this one
elemental point: Does this help or harm the
relationship?
"But where do I begin?" she asked. In my head, her
question was an echo of so many other students who had also
asked, "How do you do this?"-as if building or
repairing a relationship with an animal was a
specific skill that could be explained and taught like
teaching their dogs to heel or come when called. In
trying to answer them, I have always felt a bit like the
artist who, when asked how to paint, responded,
"It's easy. You put the red where the red goes and the
green where the green goes and the yellow where the yellow
goes. ..." I also remember Matisse's
response to a woman who thoughtlessly asked how long
it had taken him to paint a picture: "A few
hours . . . and my whole life."
I know what it is to long for a recipe, to hope for
magic knots, to want a shortcut to knowledge that
can be gained in only one way-practice, persistence
and experience. When I was first studying with Linda
Tellington-Jones, I asked her which place on
an animal's body was the best place for beginning the
hands-on work. Linda replied, "Anywhere is fine.
Unless the animal tells you otherwise. Then pick
another spot." This answer initially maddened me.
I wanted what I did to be perfect, and I
wanted the precise recipe to achieve the results
I so admired in Linda's work with animals. But
I slowly came to realize that the reply that so
frustrated me was a completely truthful answer,
one that contained a great deal of the wisdom that informs
Linda's work with animals. To begin the dialogue
between human and animal so that a relationship may
develop is like starting any conversation. You have to pick
a starting point, and if that doesn't work, you pick
another one, and if necessary another, until at last you
find a point of agreement. And then you begin
to explore the common ground, feeling your way as you
go, always listening to the animal, the only one who can
tell you when you've got it right.
"All right," I told Wendy. "Here's how
we're going to start repairing this relationship. Leave
Chance where he is-it doesn't matter that
he's not looking this way. I want you to say nothing
but take a step parallel to him. Don't move
toward him; just keep taking slow steps until Chance
notices. He will. And when he looks your way,
don't say a word. Just toss him a treat."
Puzzled, she did as I said. Still deep in his
prayers at the end of the leash, Chance glanced over his
shoulder when he caught Wendy's movements in his
peripheral vision. He was surprised by the
unexpected treat that landed next to him. Briefly,
he looked at Wendy before reaching for the food and then
turning away to resume his prayers. She took
another step, and again he glanced over his shoulder.
Another treat and this time a long contemplative stare
from the dog before he turned away. A few more steps,
more tidbits, and then it happened. Chance swallowed the
food and then slowly approached Wendy. He stood
looking up at her, clearly questioning this unusual
turn of events. She fed him a little more, and while
he ate, we could see the wheels turning as he thought
over the situation. As if to test what he believed
might be happening, the dog turned away from Wendy and stared off
into the distance. "Wait," I told her,
"don't move and just wait." For what seemed an
eternity, Wendy and her dog stood motionless,
frozen in a tableau of disconnection. Then,
deliberately, without being asked, because he chose to,
Chance turned back to her and looked straight into her
eyes, his tail wagging.
From that moment on in that training session, there was no
getting rid of him. Like Mary's lamb, wherever
Wendy went, Chance was sure to go. Amazed and
delighted, Wendy moved in every possible direction,
even trying to run away from him, but Chance was always there
beside her, his eyes shining. Over and over she kept
shaking her head in disbelief, saying it couldn't be as
easy as that.
"I know it sounds too simple," I agreed, "but
look at your dog. What is he telling you?"
With a wistful smile, she looked at the dog who
stood watching her with bright eyes and a softly wagging
tail. "He's telling me that he's happy."
"Then believe him!." I smiled. "He's never
lied to you, and he never will. If you want to know if
something works for Chance, ask him. He doesn't care
how silly or simple something may seem to you. If
it works for him, that's all that matters."
For Wendy, the repair efforts of the next
few months required concentration and focus, but it was
work she gladly embraced. With each day, their
relationship grew stronger. In Chance's resistance,
she no longer saw a dog with "a will to displease."
She saw a beloved friend saying "I don't understand"
or "This bores me" or "I can't do that." And then
she helped him understand, or made it more interesting, or
switched to something more exciting, or asked for something he
could do. She opened her eyes to the subtleties of his
every movement and began to understand what a flick of an
ear or a glance really meant. Chance no longer
needed to bolt away or lay down to be heard. He
began to trust that Wendy saw the quieter messages
written in the slight drop of his tail or the
folding of his whiskers against his muzzle. Confident in
her support, he began to try harder, now willing
to work with her in partnership as they joyfully mastered
new skills together.