Bones Would Rain from the Sky: Deepening Our Relationships with Dogs (6 page)

A new approach began to form in my heart. Or,
more accurately, a philosophy shaped by my heart
began to define my thinking. There was no single moment
of epiphany, just a growing awareness that I need
look no further than a dog's eyes to find the
precise moment when my connection to that dog shifted
away from clear and free agreement between us. Did my
approach to the dog create resistance, fear, distrust
or pain, dimming the clear trusting light in
his eyes? Then I had to find a better way. At
first unconsciously and then with deliberation, I began
to evaluate all methods, philosophies and
techniques against just this simple standard: the light in
a dog's eyes. Over and over I asked myself,
"Does this allow the light to shine?" And in every dog's
eyes, I found my answer. Held to this standard, many
of the popular theories and principles proved poor
guides to the greater intimacy and deeper, more joyful
connections I knew were possible with animals.
Slowly, I abandoned much of the parochial wisdom and
began to open my heart and mind to learning what I
wanted and needed to know from those who could best teach me-the
animals themselves.
In many instances, my desire for another way was
unmatched by my ability to find the better way,
leaving me frustrated and uncertain where to turn.
Unhappily, I found myself using the only
techniques I knew, though as softly and
effectively as possible. I did not like having
to apologize to dogs telling them, "In the long run, this is for
your own good." I watched the light in their eyes
dim, and I moved as quickly as I knew how
to restore the joyful clarity to those unfailing
reflections of what I had done. In my soul, I
was quite miserable at times. When I was not too
arrogant or self-importantly busy to listen
to that small still voice inside, I heard the protest
deep inside me. I saw all too clearly the
pain and confusion in far too many animal eyes.
Always, I kept searching for an understanding of how and why
what I did dimmed the light. And always, I kept
looking for what my heart told me must exist: a
way to keep the light shining.

A gift horse
Ironically the direction I sought came from the
horse world. This was the world where in my teenage years,
I had learned to apply force quickly and effectively
in order to control and "master" animals. (and I
had learned my lessons well, which at the time earned
me great praise from my mentors. But it was hard work
indeed to unlearn these same lessons.) On a
snowy March morning in a frigid indoor riding
arena somewhere in Maryland, I found what I had been
seeking.

I cannot recall just how I found my way to that
weekend seminar taught by Linda
Tellington-Jones, an internationally respected
horsewoman. I was surprised that there were no dull
lectures or demonstrations with fully trained
horses. Instead, after a brief introduction, this
trainer began to teach by example, working directly
with the horses who had been brought to the seminar for one
problem or another. The first horse was a
Thoroughbred mare, who, despite sterling
bloodlines and considerable monetary value as a
broodmare, was so dangerous that both the veterinarian
and the farrier refused to deal with her; just one farm
employee could handle her at all. The horse's
participation in the seminar was made possible only by the
fact that she lived at the farm hosting the weekend.
For perhaps half an hour, I watched as this gifted
horsewoman worked with this horse, slowly helping her
to shift from a desperately flailing blur of
hooves to a horse who was trying hard to cooperate
despite her fear and anger.

Riding invisibly on the back of this troubled,
beautiful mare, the gift of understanding made its way
past the defenses of my intellect and
directly to my heart. As I watched, first in
arrogant internal argument and then with humble
gratitude for what I could not deny, much of what I
had diligently learned and faithfully applied was
shattered. Learning theories and principles became
dry, one-dimensional, inadequate explanations for the
rich, multisensory experience of connecting with an
animal in a humane and truly holistic way.
Tellington-Jones" philosophy, which had sounded
good to me on paper, was given authentic form in her every
gesture and in her responses to the horse. There was
no lip service to "humane training"-this was an
integration of heart and mind on a profound level.
Watching her work with that seemingly impossible mare,
I was moved quite literally to tears; had someone asked
me to speak in those moments, I would have been unable
to respond.
The communication and relationship that I saw between this
woman and a horse reorganized portions of my
brain in such a way that the pieces never again fit
together as they had in the past. This elated me only
slightly more than it scared me. It was not easy
to accept that my view of the world needed to be redefined,
that the map I had created to guide me in my world was
now useless for taking me where I wanted to go.
In my mind's eye, my old map was crumpled and
tossed aside. Armed with fresh crayons, I was
going to have to start mapping my world and my understanding of it
all over again. Though frightening, I knew that it was also
necessary. I had to know more.
In the next several years of my study with her, the
woman who would become my greatest human teacher
shifted me to a whole new level of connection with
animals. I thought that I had great respect for
animals; she showed me what respect really meant
in her attentiveness and responses to the animal.
Already known as a kind trainer, I learned that the
greatest act of kindness was to see with compassion what the
animals told me about their feelings, their fears,
their limitations and their abilities. I thought I
understood how to communicate with animals; she showed
me that I also needed to listen. Respected as someone
who had "soft hands," I learned to be softer yet,
to ask and not demand, and to patiently wait for the
response.
When I was ready to hear it, Tellington-Jones
stunned me with succinct advice that shot like an arrow to my heart,
piercing the arrogance and pride that lay at the root of
my failings as a trainer: "Learn to train without
ego." And I did, with the help of countless dogs who
have kept me honest, some with a few well-timed
growls. Slowly, I discovered how to carry the dance
of relationship into training sessions.
This was not an easy transition for me. On paper,
it seems like a joyful and painless process:
Trainer finds new way, takes it, animals and
people are happy. In reality, finding my way along this
new path meant years of work, sorting out excess
baggage from the important stuff to be carried
along, experimenting with anyone who would stand still long enough
for me to test my next theory or idea. The
impulsively crumpled previous map of my world
had to be retrieved; much of what I had learned was
still useful and valid. I struggled along, trying
to blend the old and the new, trusting that eventually I
would find the balance of technique and philosophy that
sat comfortably on my heart. There were
extraordinary moments of success when I was able
to move in harmony with the animal in a joyful,
mutual dance. There were also moments of failure that
made me consider closing down my training
school or simply giving up and reverting to the old
ways. The intense joy of even incomplete
successes drove me past my repeated
failures, my lifelong reputation for stubborn
pursuit of a goal now working in my favor.
Years passed-years of experimenting and thinking and
getting that blessed connection just right, years of discarding
any technique or philosophy that moved me
away from an authentic connection of relationship with the
animals. Slowly, without my full appreciation
or awareness, brief connections became longer
moments and then short but joyful dances. Though it
required considerable focus and deliberation, finding the
connection became easier. Always, I looked for the
light in an animal's eyes, trying to move past
the fear or distrust or confusion to find the clear light
of understanding and being understood, the light of joy and
confidence and trust. And then one day, it happened.
Without thought or effort, I could find the cool white
space within myself where no ego existed, where I had a
goal but also no goals at all, where there was only
the dog who accepted my invitation to dance, and the world
fell away. From that point on, there was no question but that
all I did would be directed toward this place where
the dance is possible. There was no question but that the
only paths I could follow were ones that led me here.
When I first met Hobbs, he was leaping like a hooked
trout at the end of his lead as his owner led him toward
my training room. From our phone conversation, I
knew that this little black-and-white dog had bitten
five people, and that other trainers had recommended he be
put to sleep. I also knew that his owner considered me
this dog's last hope. The woman was high strung,
anxious, fluttering in her agitation, but I could see
that she loved this dog. We talked a little while I
watched him. Vibrantly alive, Hobbs quivered
with energy that had no outlet, living on his toes, in
his skin, barely able to control his own mind. Every sound
or slight movement drew his instant attention.
When his eyes briefly contacted mine, I saw
intelligence and distrust in nearly equal
proportions. With my mind, I reached out to him and
asked, "Do you want to be this way?" For a moment,
there was no response. Then slowly he turned his
head and looked into my eyes for a long time. His
answer was clear in my head: "No one
listens to me." I promised him that I would, and
taking the leash from his owner, I began to search for how
best to begin.
I asked Hobbs to simply walk with me, but he
leaped away, pulling hard toward the training room
door. I moved with him and stood quietly as he
pawed at the door in irritation. In his quick glances
at me, I could see that he wished both that the door
would open and that I would go away. But the door
remained closed, and I stood waiting, gently
persistent, softly toning to him. Gradually, he
settled down, his breathing normalized, his eyes
beginning to lose the hard, quick look of a trapped
animal. Again, I invited him to walk with me, and this
time he agreed, though he was cautious and still wanted
to leave.
As we reached the center of the room, he suddenly
stopped. When I gave a little tug on the lead, I
saw him begin to tense, his whole body stiff with an
unspoken challenge, his eyes shifting in a split
second to the hard eyes of a dog who is growing
angry. He leaned back to set himself
against the lead, and I quickly offered a little slack
to release the tension. Surprised by this, he
relaxed a little but stood watchfully waiting for my
next move. I knew he was anticipating that I
would insist on going forward, and I could feel him
mentally preparing to resist. From the history the owner
had provided, I knew that Hobbs would bite me
if I pushed him. Though she had claimed that he
bit without "any warning," I could see now that this was not
true. Hobbs was quite fair. He did give
warnings. The problem was that people ignored these warnings, which
undoubtedly both frustrated and confused him.
Biting, he had learned, was a clear communication that
even very unobservant people take note of and respect.
He did not know that he was writing his own death
sentence.
Quietly, I turned back the way we had come,
inviting him to join me, which he did without hesitation.
We continued to work on simply walking together, asking
him to be with me but going only where he was willing to go.
Silent until now, his owner spoke up: "Why
did you give in to him? How can it be a good thing to let
him get away with that? Why don't you just make him do
what you want?"
I reminded her that precisely that approach had led
to this dog biting people. "There is no point in winning a

battle but losing the war. This dog no longer
trusts that anyone hears him when he says no, and so
he's ready for a fight. I don't want to fight with
him. If I'm going to help him, I need him
to cooperate with me. He's got to do it willingly,
freely and with trust that I will respect what he
tells me. And he is cooperating comhe's just not
ready to cooperate in that particular spot just yet."
As I said this, we approached the same spot where
Hobbs had balked a few minutes earlier. For
whatever reason, he stopped again and looked at me.
I asked him to go forward, but he did not move. For a
long moment, he stood there looking at me. I
waited, watching for the signs that he had reached a
sticking point. But they never came. The dog took
a deep breath, and when I asked one more time, he
stepped forward past that mysteriously difficult
place and we went on, together.
For the next hour, each time we found a point where
Hobbs told me he could not go on, I listened.
We changed direction, we did less, we tried
again. There was a dance between us now, the dog and I, and
he had given me the lead. I did not step on his
toes in any way. He was soft
in my hands, so that a mere flutter of a finger on the
lead became a meaningful signal. He was soft in his
mind, and it showed in his eyes; the distrust slowly
gave way to a cautious belief that I was listening.
Soft in his heart, Hobbs gave me all that I
asked for. I cannot say where we went or precisely
what we did. The world had slid away, and this little
black- and-white dog was all I could see or
hear.
The client spoke up, startling me since I had
nearly forgotten she was there. "I can't believe he
hasn't bitten you yet." I did not know whether
to laugh or cry. I tried to explain to her that I
had given this dog no reason to bite me, that
by listening to his quiet signals of protest and
refusal, he never felt the need to make his point
with his teeth.
There was no instant cure for this dog. Teaching him
trust and learning to read his subtle warning signals
would take time, I told his owner. "This is not an
easy dog," I reminded her, "but he will teach you a
great deal." In her eyes, I saw a quickening of
hope and a fierce determination, and I knew that she
would find a way to this dog's heart and mind.