Chaser (6 page)

Late in 2002, Timber, then eleven years old, also fell ill with cancer. Robin and Sally and I mourned Timber's passing together. I was proud of how Robin had raised both Blue and Timber up to be such loving dogs.

With Timber gone, Sally and I were without a dog in our house for the first time in more than forty-seven years—since we were newlyweds in 1955. Despite the void this created, neither Sally nor I suggested getting another dog. But soon enough, I found myself continually bringing up Border collies in our conversations. I marveled at their seeming ability to learn language. I found myself reminiscing about Yasha's learning capabilities, wondering what more he could have picked up with the right training. But I still didn't think of getting another dog, Border collie or otherwise.

Sally has grounded me all our life together, and she knew what she and I needed even if I didn't. At Christmas in 2003 we were sitting around the tree, watching Aidan play with his new Thomas the Tank Engine trains. Deb was sorting out the pile of empty boxes, and Robin was organizing the rest of the cleanup.

I said I was going to try out my new tool belt. Sally stood up and placed herself in my path. Hands on her hips and with a crooked smile on her face, she announced, “John Pilley, you're getting a Border collie puppy for Christmas. But you have to wait until sometime this spring before we can go out to Wayne West's and bring the puppy home. He or she hasn't been born yet. I don't want to hear any arguments. This is already done.”

If she had told me that grass was blue and the sky green, I couldn't have been more surprised—or delighted. A puppy, a Border collie puppy, and one of Wayne West's Border collie puppies. This was a merry Christmas!

Sally mistook my blank look and stunned silence for resistance. Her southern drawl became more pronounced as she quickly explained, “I called Wayne a few weeks back and told him I wanted to get you a puppy.” One of several reasons Wayne is renowned for his Border collies is that he is a highly selective breeder. He told Sally he wouldn't have a litter on his farm until the spring, and offered to refer her to another breeder, an excellent one. Sally, God bless her, said, “No, Wayne, it has to be one of yours.” As I slowly stood up, she raised her chin. Looking me straight in the eye, she said, “And that's all there is to it.”

In a second I had her wrapped in my arms. “Thank you, babe,” I whispered in her ear. When I finally let go of the hug, we were both grinning from ear to ear. She grabbed my hand and tugged me to the kitchen, saying, “Come on, that turkey isn't gonna carve itself.”

As winter passed into spring, I grew more and more excited about getting a new Border collie puppy. I wondered how far a Border collie could go in learning the meaning of words and other aspects of human language if I poured the training on in puppyhood. What methods could best trigger and extend such learning?

I had no idea, really. There was nothing in the scientific literature that said it was possible or gave a hint as to the best approach. I decided that I would have to take my cues from the dog, and try to devise a method that suited the breed-related and individual attributes that he or she displayed.

At the end of April, Wayne called and said, “We've got a litter of seven pups. You should have some good 'uns to look at in a month or so, when they're ready to have visitors.”

By the end of May we couldn't wait any longer and drove out to Wayne's farm to look at the puppies. It felt like Christmas morning all over again as we approached the mass of wiggling black and white fur balls at the side of their mother, Tess, who was curled around them in a protective U shape. Tess shot us a quick guarded look as she licked the face of a rubber-legged pup with a black patch on one eye. Her babies were still too young to be separated from her, their eyes barely open as they stumbled over each other, searching for her milk. Sally and I looked on in admiration and awe, making no attempt to steal a cuddle or choose among the pups. It wasn't until we were in the car that we broke our silence.

“Well, in another month,” I began. Sally finished my sentence with a giggle: “We'll have a puppy!” We didn't stop grinning the entire ride home.

Slow as Christmas coming when you're a little kid, June 28 finally arrived, a beautiful, sunny day. Now eight weeks old, the puppies were weaned off their mother's milk and ready to leave her side. At Wayne's farm, Sally and I sat under a big oak tree and Wayne brought the puppies and their mother out onto the grass about ten feet away from us. He was offering us the pick of the entire litter.

We watched the puppies toddle on all four legs while they sniffed in the grass and wriggled around each other and their mother. Then one of them, mostly white with black markings, including a black patch around her left eye, looked over at us. The puppy came over, not just tail but whole hind end wagging, and climbed into Sally's lap. We now saw that the puppy was a female, and she sat happily in Sally's lap while we petted her for a few minutes. And then she made her way back over to her mother and siblings.

Watching the puppy in Sally's lap, I felt the spark of magic as her little brown eyes looked up at me. Most animals are drawn to Sally, but this little one was singling us both out. A connection had been made, and for whatever reason, this puppy had chosen us.

I felt almost giddy as I said, “So this is the one?” It was really more a statement than a question. Sally took my hand and smiled. “Yes!”

When we drove away from Wayne's farm, we took the newest member of our family with us. Wayne cautioned, “These pups are apt to get car sick, you know.” But as Sally says, the pup sat in her crate on the back seat “as pretty as you please.” Of course, Sally sat in the back seat next to the pup, softly talking to her until she curled up, her little eyes growing heavy as, rocked gently by the motion of the car, she surrendered to sleep.

As soon as we got in the house, Sally and I knelt down beside the crate on the living room floor. We opened the crate door, encouraging the puppy, “Come on! Come on, baby!” Without a shred of hesitation out walked our beauty, and we playfully began introducing her to her new world.

The puppy's arrival showed us how big the void in our lives had been over the past few years. Now there was a fresh young spirit in the house, a creature eager to discover the world and her place in it. The puppy's enthusiasm for each new day fired up the same enthusiasm in both Sally and me. But especially me. I told Sally, “This is the best Christmas present ever!”

We couldn't wait to see how her personality developed day by day.

4

I
WOKE UP THINKING
about the puppy and the Lobster King. The story of the Lobster King is a parable told by Bernie Dunlap, a former Rhodes Scholar who came to Wofford in 1993 as a chaired professor in the humanities and became president of the college in 2000. I sat in on all of his classes after I graduated from teaching in 1996. One day he began his class by saying, “When I was in college, the Lobster King came to me in a dream and said, ‘Bernie, you have been good. I am going to grant you three wishes. The first wish is you can have great wealth and power.'”

There was a crowd of people in Bernie's dream, and they all cheered that wish. Bernie's dream self said, “Thanks, but that doesn't interest me.”

The Lobster King said, “The second wish is you can live forever.”

Again the crowd cheered. Bernie said, “Well, forever is a long time. I will need time and experience to think about that.”

The Lobster King said, “The third and last wish you can choose is to have eloquence. When you speak, the sun will shine, flowers will bloom, birds will sing, and the music of the heavens will play.”

The crowd booed. “What kind of wish is that?” they yelled. But Bernie said, “I like it!”

With his many talents, Bernie could have amassed personal wealth and power. But he used his truly remarkable eloquence to become an inspiring teacher, and as president of Wofford he has inspired the entire college community.

As Bernie related the dream and discussed its implications, an hour's lecture seemed to pass in a few brief minutes. The whole class loved Bernie's story, which is really about aligning our ambitions with our aptitudes—getting in touch with our unique genetic inheritance. In several lectures that I have been invited to give at Wofford since my retirement, I have recounted Bernie's dream to students and asked them, “What three wishes did the Lobster King give you?” Sad to say, usually half the students say they have no idea what their own best aptitudes and ambitions might be. Too often, parents, teachers, and the culture, with their needs and demands, mask or dim students' awareness of their own talents and interests. I always hope the story of the Lobster King can be a vehicle for challenging students to discover or rediscover their gifts.

The Lobster King, whom I naturally pictured as an enormous lobster wearing a jeweled crown, had been on my mind since the day before, when we brought the puppy home from Wayne West's farm. What special gifts did she have, and what was the best way to develop them? Did her gifts include an ability to learn the meaning of words?

I knew without a doubt that as a Border collie, she had genes for herding. Centuries of breeding by farmers had endowed her with the capacity to keep her eye on the sheep while giving her ear to the farmer, and I felt that by rights the Scottish mountains should be her home. At the same time, I felt strongly that she had chosen Sally and me as her guardians. I silently promised her that Sally and I would let her be herself, and that we would do our best to make her life a happy one.

I fumbled for my glasses and checked the time: five a.m. That was actually a little late for me. I've been getting up before dawn most of my life. But I'd been restless and had difficulty getting to sleep the night before, with the excitement of having a puppy in the house for the first time in twenty-six years.

I flicked on the lamp by my side of the bed. Sally was still sleeping. She generally went to bed and got up a couple of hours or so after me. And the puppy was still sleeping in her crate.

Sally and I were ambivalent about confining her in the crate during the night. People didn't commonly crate train their dogs when we'd last had a puppy. But Wayne West recommended we give it a try as an aid to housetraining and establishing a good daily schedule for the puppy. “She'll treat it like her own little den and be less likely to have an accident,” Wayne told us. The puppy had whined off and on for a few minutes after being put in the crate the night before. But then she had settled down and gone right to sleep on some soft throw rugs, with a couple of toys beside her that were safe to mouth if she wanted.

The pool of light from my reading lamp reached into the front of the puppy's crate. She was sleeping with the right side of her head on her paws, and I could just see the black patch on the left side of her face merging into the shadows. More of Wayne's words came to mind: “All dogs are sensitive to how you speak to them. But the Border collie just might be the most sensitive. The quieter you speak to one of these dogs, the more they'll concentrate on listening to you to figure out what you want them to do. And then when you do raise your voice in praise or correction, it'll mean something.”

I loved Wayne's practical wisdom and country eloquence. Before we'd left his farm with the puppy, I'd asked him if he had any special advice for us.

“Only the same special advice you've heard me spout again and again over the years we've known each other, Doc Pilley.”

“Go ahead and tell me again. I like to hear you say it.”

Wayne grinned and said, “Let the puppy be a puppy. Give the dog time to develop, and piggyback your training on her natural instincts. I tell people that want their dogs to work livestock, ‘Take a young dog around the farm with you. When you put out hay and the stock come to it, let the young dog out of the truck. By instinct they'll run around behind the stock, and they'll think they brought them to you. Praise the dog bigtime for that, and you're on your way.'”

“That's what we're gonna do, and we're on our way,” I said with a laugh and a wave, both returned by Wayne, as we slowly drove away.

Wayne's friend David Johnson, a Border collie trainer he often sent his own dogs to in order to complete their training, spoke in the same terms about the value of a quiet, calm voice, using the dog's natural instincts as the foundation of training, the power of praise, and the importance of limiting harsh words and negative treatment. Around a campfire after a Border collie exhibition, I had heard David say, “When a dog does something that pleases me, I brag on him and praise him and let him know that every way I can.”

All these things harmonized with Sally's and my prior experiences with dogs, as well as with all I knew about creative learning from my experiences as a psychology professor and experimenter. But theories and principles are only as good as their application. I was ready to play with my puppy.

I slipped out of bed and tiptoed over to the crate, and the puppy stirred awake at my approach. “Good morning, Puppy,” I whispered softly as I bent down and opened the crate door. The puppy stood up slowly, yawned widely, blinked and stretched, and then trotted eagerly out of the crate to lick my face and hands as I petted and held her.

Sally and I had no idea what we were going to name her, but we'd decided “Puppy” would do for now. We were both keen to find a name that really suited her, after we got to know her personality fully.

Her bedding was bone dry. Wayne's kennel practices built on a mother dog's instinct for keeping the den clean and teaching the young to relieve themselves outside it. The result, Sally and I knew from yesterday, was that the puppy was basically housetrained on arrival. But I didn't want to make her wait too long to get outside. So I shuffled into my clothes, talking softly to her all the while, and she eagerly followed me out onto our screened-in back porch. I put her on a leash, and then we walked down the porch steps to the backyard. It was still dark outside, but there was a glimmer of dawn in the sky. We walked away from the house along the chainlink fence bordering the yard, and I said, “Come on, girl. Do your business!” I spoke with enthusiasm but in a fairly quiet tone.