Hangin' with dogs

An owner of a pup from one of my spring litters posed an interesting question that represents good insights and appreciation of dog psychology: "How do you separate training sessions (which should be short, right?) from walks and things where you’re not actively training? It seems like different rules for different situations could be counterproductive." I recall having had similar thoughts early in my dog-training life, so I'm sure that most dog owners find themselves faced with what appears to be a dilemma. I say "appears to be" because the question needs reformulating; difficulty begins when people think in terms of training versus non-training interactions with their dogs.

Wrapping our brains around the reality that there is no such thing as a non-training interaction would go a long way towards clearing up the miscues and negative learning that takes place in most households. Every moment we are present with our dogs they are learning...they learn that a nudge of your elbow with a nose gets a pet, or gets a rebuke...are you consistent? Have you even thought whether you do or don't want the dog to do that? What about the joyous leap-to-greet? Great for the ego, bad for dress suits. Dogs don't necessarily "get" the difference between weekend sweat pants and workday slacks, and will be understandably confused if you hug him back one time and swat him off the next. You can think of gazillions of similar examples.

So, how to un-muddy the waters? First, to break down the questions asked, beginning with the last: "It seems like different rules for different situations could be counterproductive." Agreed, it does seem so. However I give dogs tremendous credit for understanding context and being able to apply different behavioral rules to different situations. For example, indoor versus outdoor play. I don't think I've ever had to "explain" to my dogs that you don't race around my living room shaking a stick - the same dog that out in the yard would knock me down in her attempt to grab a ball from my hand will upon coming indoors immediately seek a patch of floor to hold in place and will do so for hours. Different situation, different rules; how does the dog understand that outdoors is for rough housing, indoors for self-restraint?

Furthermore, if one defines the rules from a broader perspective, then there really isn't any discrepancy, there's only one Rule to follow. The Prime Directive for dogs is Do Master's bidding. If Master bids you walk by her side, do so. If Master bids you walk hither and thither at will within the range of the leash, then feel free.

My contention is that dogs are so attuned to our body language that their ability to infer our wishes is virtually like mind-reading. So, in order for our dogs to follow the Prime Directive, someone has to actually be the Master at all times. If we are certain that a behavior is or isn't ok, the dog will know our opinion on the matter by observing the tiniest muscle tension or intake of breath. If we are uncertain or ambivalent, be assured the dog will know that, too.

Once you stop thinking "now I'm training my dog" and "now I'm done training my dog" you can begin utilizing the Prime Directive. The puppy owner asked the question in the context of walking, so let's look at that. I'm guessing she wants to give the pup freedom to just be a puppy out for a walk without having to formally heel, yet doesn't want to be yanked from pine tree to pond. So, take a few moments to determine for yourself what's allowed and what isn't? In my case, for my dogs pull on the leash is acceptable so long as the force isn't enough to pull me off balance; if I can restrain the dog with just two fingers on the leash, that's allowable. They must always be attentive to me...if their enthusiasm escalates and they "forget" that they're answerable to me, they'll be "reminded" that there are rules to be followed...that they have crossed a line that I drew in the sand. I use conversational cues, commands if you will, to let them know that something specific is expected of them. If they're pulling too hard, "easy" combined with a purposeful slowing of my speed will convey the message. They settle down, I'll speed back up to reward them for compliance. They choose to continue to act up, I might stop or turn around. This isn't "formal training" in the way people tend to think of it, but it is absolutely effective in conveying a concept to the dog.

Workin' Dawgs

I'm frequently asked whether my dogs are from "working lines" or "show lines." The answer differs subject to the point of view of the questioner. I have to establish some commonality of definition before I can begin to answer. Are these pet people who have seen the terms somewhere and been told that "show dogs" are genetically inferior to "working dogs"? Are they folk who have done schutzhund and want a pup to compete for regional or national placements? Have they owned a GSD before, and if so what was its bloodline?

Generally speaking, from the perspective of the competitive schutzhund folks, my dogs are "show dogs." From the perspective of AKC show competitors, my dogs are "working dogs." And from the perspective of the German and international organizations that establish the Standard for the breed, my dogs are from the "High Lines" that epitomize the versatility and functionality of the true German Shepherd Dog. With such disparity, where's the consensus?

I once belonged to a few online communities of GSD folk, and discussions would arise that reminded me of the old Kennel Ration commercials (who out there is old enough to remember the brand, let alone the commercial?). The jingle went like this:
"My dog's better'n your dog. My dog's better'n yours. My dog's better cuz he eats Kennel Ration - my dog's better'n yours." If you substitute "bites harder" or "has way more prey drive" for "eats Kennel Ration" you'd have the gist of the argument. The focus in these exchanges wasn't so much an honest discussion of what constitutes true working character in a dog, it was a building-up-by-putting-down process of comparing single elements of the dogs' vast array of capabilities.

For instance, biting. Now, the word tends to conjure a picture of inappropriate aggression, but in the venue of these discussions it referred to the Schutzhund "grip" or the drive to grip sheep, bad guys, or other "prey" ("grip" being the sanitized equivalent of "bite"). Grip is utilized to stop a sheep from escaping the flock, or just as effectively to stop a thief from escaping arrest. It's a useful and desirable trait that should be inherent in the breed. But if the grip is applied without provocation or is so hair-trigger that the dog is dangerous to the general public, or the dog has so much drive that it is useless for anything other than grip work, or its structure and type are so far off standard that it doesn't have the stamina to trot for hours, is it still a true GSD?

Another single element of judgment often applied by tunnel-vision fanciers: sidegait. The movement of the GSD is crucial from a practical standpoint in that the breed is designed to trot effortlessly for hours on end. The application was originally in huge, fence-less mountain meadows where the dogs would circle the herds of sheep all day, every day, throughout the grazing season. To keep that up, the dogs' conformation needed to allow easy, energy-conserving movement. Dog shows are intended to evaluate that movement. But dog shows don't usually evaluate the "sheep sense" at the same time.

Enter the High Lines. These dogs are evaluated as a package...their tracking ability, response to threat, and reliability in real-life situations are assessed together with a nose-to-tail physical critique that spells out their faults and strengths. Outstanding capabilities in one or a few aspects will not buy admission to the end goal of recommendations for breeding --- each dog must possess the full spectrum of qualities or it is not given the KoerMeister's highest rating.

So, are my dogs "working dogs"? Absolutely. Are they show dogs? Definitely. My working dogs rip into the "bad guy", carry their own backpacks on hiking trips, help locate narcotics and lost persons, and allow me to sleep safe and secure at night. My show dogs bring home trophies, cause people to literally lean out of their cars to gush over their beauty, and can stop your heart with their exquisite form when racing through the pasture. Are these dogs one and the same animals? You betcha!!!

Highlands

Having been home a week now, I should be caught up, back in the saddle, in the swing...pick your metaphor. If only that were so. Many have asked me about the trip, and I've intended to synopsize the experience before the details are lost but my Grandma had a saying about good intentions and the pavement along the Road to Hell.

Still, the cold winds, fitful rainstorms and generally moody/glowering skies we had today brought Scottish memories back to the fore. Tonight what comes to mind most strongly are the sheep...everywhere. Sheep far outnumber the humans in Scotland. In New Zealand it seemed to be a point of pride that there are sheep an order of magnitude more than the humans. I didn't hear any Scots bragging about their woolly citizenry, but it appeared that if you live in northern Scotland you're either a sheep farmer or a Bed & Breakfast owner. Or Royal. Other options weren't readily apparent.

The rusted heather hillsides were dotted with the grayish shapes of unshorn sheep, followed by the bright white, unstained new lambs. April is the thick of lambing season, and everywhere we hiked we could scarcely avoid treading on Scottish black faced and Lleyn lambs curled together or dashing out of our way, bleating and baaing their fright to complacent ewes. The Lleyn lambs looked for all the world, when lying down, like Easter bunnies...their fleece is short which gives their erectly-held ears a disproportionately large and bunnyish silhouette.

Fences seem only a means of delineating property lines not of actual livestock containment. Sheep run the roadways and ditches and public lands and highlands, yards and even woodlands. Almost anyplace we stopped to take in the scenery we could watch shepherds working the flocks together with the ubiquitous Border Collies. There might have been a Lab or a mutt here or there, but Border Collies ruled the countryside. What a treat it was to watch true working farm dogs doing what their ancestors have done since the dawn of domestication. Found myself wishing I had tried harder to bring one of the GSDs along...they would have learned a thing or two from watching.

Everything in that land was rugged, from the topography of ancient basalt bedrock to the hardy breeds of livestock and dogs, to the people themselves. We learned quickly that they count on their tourists being rather rugged and capable as well...hiking trails were, shall we say, less than well marked. Blazes like one expects to see here in the States must be unthinkable to these hardy souls. And I've got the bog-stained boots to prove it!

Karma?

One's sense of time is a subjective thing, at least I've noticed my own being stretched like a telescope of compressed like a slinky under various circumstances. Many a poet has waxed on about a lover's sense of time versus a condemned man's, a young child's versus an octogenarian's. In my current situation, my removal from things familiar, from the routine of farm chores and obligations to the animals, plus the need to contend with unfamiliar stresses, has turned my perceptions of the past four days into a slurry of images without definitive edges. That is what I had hoped...but I had hoped it would be occurring because of the miles that I had expected to have logged on Scotland's moors and highlands. Unfortunately, Eyjafjallajokul (the volcano in Iceland) had other plans for me...and millions of others.

So, a much-anticipated wilderness adventure has morphed into an education in acceptance and flexibility. As I've stood in lines, lines, and more lines these past four days (nope, I still don't have my luggage, and the Wal-Mart blouse I bought on Friday is developing an interesting "musk") I've struck up conversations with folks from Sweden, Denmark, Belgium, England, Ireland and quite a number of Germans. Their stories vary, but all tend to remind me that my situation is far from dire.

Many are like me, frustrated and inconvenienced and racking up hotel/living expenses. They express concerns over their inability to get back to work/family/home and I can relate to the see-saw of emotions inevitable in situations where conflicting information contributes to repeatedly dashed hopes. Some folks' stories are heart-rending, like the woman who had cut short her vacation with the husband she rarely sees to attend a funeral in England, only to find herself unable to be with her grieving family or to rejoin her bound-for-Greece husband. A grandma who was so agitated she literally was bouncing on tiptoe, hoping against hope she'd make it to Italy to see her grandson's first communion. One couple couldn't even make it to their own wedding! Of course the news has been full of more high-profile consequences, like the cancelation of many dignitaries' attendance at the Polish president's funeral, or Angela Merkel's inability to get back to Germany.

But the individual, Common Man stories I'm hearing day after day have reminded me of my experience flying home from Germany on 9/11. The Canadians housed everyone on my flight and several other planeloads of stranded travelers in military barracks a couple of hours outside of Halifax. The thousands of passengers that found their fate linked by those events formed a camaraderie of need. People relaxed their usual facade, forging bonds of a deeper and more acute intimacy than society normally supports. The stories that were shared with me, then and now, were under circumstances that compel unvarnished emotional honesty.

Gardens and Grooming

The pups have had the use of my garden area as a play yard for the past couple of months, but today's play sessions were cut somewhat short. Mom, they soon learned, hasn't much patience for all their "help" when actual work needs to get done. It was funny at first; I marveled at the intelligence expressed by the twelve-week old Rio daughter who started digging every time I wielded a shovel and who grabbed and shook the clumps of grass and weeds as I hoed. I watched her sidelong...she was looking at me, looking at the task, then copying. She didn't know why, she didn't know the purpose, but she wanted to participate. I had to lean on my hoe and laugh. But about the fourth time she gamboled up and down the furrows as I kicked dirt over the corn seed, I had to scoop her up and send her packing. The howling that wafted from the kennel was quite mournful...she's going to be quite a character. The pup pictured is a son of Vixen & Ieuan.

Besides getting the corn planted and the potatoes cut and the manure spread, I raked out several garbage bags full of hair from the two molting horses and a half dozen of the shepherds before my arm gave out. Since the birds are already nesting, I like to leave some of the softest undercoat clinging to shrubs and bushes so their nestlings have a nice warm, soft start in life. From there I took to the mower and managed to cut about a third of the pastures and property before running out of gas; that's gasoline, but it pretty accurately portrays my overall state -- out of gas. Regardless of what the calendar says, Mother Nature has committed to bringing forth spring. And just as She sends squirrels spiraling barber-pole patterns on the oaks and maples and cardinals bashing against the windows, She dictates my steps. The warmth and sunshine pushes me into an unwinnable race to get my garden planted, all the dogs and horses groomed out, perennials that proved their fitness by surviving winter in their pots still beg to be planted, and, oh yeah, maybe I should pack?

Pack, as in prepare for two weeks of hiking the Highlands of Scotland. I leave Thursday, but even if I had every minute between now and then with nothing to do but prepare, I don't see how I'd manage. And I find myself coming up with multitudes of essential projects(it's not procrastinating if you're doing something truly useful and necessary, right?) as it becomes apparent that I've managed to schedule myself to be away during some of the best of what PA has to offer. The wisteria will bloom while I'm gone...I curse that vine all year long just so for one brief, glorious week (or so) I can breathe the cool grape-scented midnight air under those magnificent pendulous purple blossoms. And the lilacs, those delicate reminders of the bouquets my mother always placed in each room every spring...no wonder I'm ambivalent about leaving.

So, Scotland, what do you have for me to compensate for a two-year gap between filling my nose with the scent of lilacs and wisteria, and not being here to watch as these pups expand their world?

April going on July

Little did I know how completely ludicrous that photo of the dogs playing in snow would look just a couple of weeks later. Here I am with the windows open to try to entice a breeze to sweep the heat of the day out of the house. My skin is itchy from dried salt-- my evening walk had me sweating like a work horse. Everyone's commenting on the lovely weather, and sure, I'm loving it. But at the same time, it terrifies me...it's been hovering in the high 70's and even over 80 a time or two...this is APRIL(!?!) The apple trees have opened their leaf buds and are quickly developing flower buds. The quince (japonica) will open by the weekend, the jonquils are in full glory, even the lilac looks like it'll bloom while I'm gone.

When we moved here from New Jersey, on Memorial Day weekend 1984, at first glance I thought there had been a horrible insect blight because the trees had no leaves. So, a quarter century ago, trees were at approximately the stage at the end of May that they are now at the beginning of April. That's nearly two-months' difference over the course of a geological nano-second! I've been reading the stats as spring arrives earlier and earlier, but I don't think the official proclamations match the on-the-ground reality of the abrupt climate change being wrought. I wish I could stop thinking of implications and just enjoy the rapturous wonder that is spring.

And spring on my hilltop truly is rapturous. Even in a normal spring, one dominated by Mud Season, one can't help joining the rabbits in their maddened "March Hare" dances...squirrels spiral up oaks, the horses donate their winter cloaks to the birds who frantically weave it into their nests, and Beth and the dogs go gamboling through the woods. OK, the dogs gambol. I trudge, but with much lighter step than usual. Tonight I counted seventeen turkeys, four kingfishers, two wood ducks, as-yet unidentified geese that made intriguing whistling sounds, and myriad cardinals, robins, wood thrush, chickadees, juncos, blue jays...and their calls were capped by the ear-drum piercing, brain-mush-inducing shrill of spring peepers calling from every wetland.

Tomorrow, back to hauling manure to my garden. The sprouts are ready to transplant, and I have potatoes to set.

Good intentions

Another lesson in doing what I intend to do when I originally intend to do it. Because now it looks like spring outside, with cardinals singing and Canada geese winging north overhead. But back in the initial days of the Big Snow Dump of 2010 I witnessed something I wanted to share. Diva and Xico (daughter and father) had "entertained" me with antics that reminded me of how children vie for their parents' attention.

Now that the Big Snow has become The Big Melt, the story is still pertinent but less timely. A mere two weeks ago we were still in serious winter here. Snowy, cold days seem to bring out the child in all of us, and this deep snowfall elicited a frenzied joy from the dogs. In particular, Diva's exuberance reached almost physically dangerous levels...dangerous, that is, to her poor dad. Normally I do not feel even slightly sorry for Xico, who can be domineering and rather bullying to his kennel mates. But since his daughter has grown up she can hang out with him; astoundingly the tables have been turned. One could say it's a reverse of the old Parents' Curse ("one day may you have a child just like you"), or perhaps it's an example of the type of behavior that warrants the Parents' Curse in the first place.

On this particular day Diva was relentless, haranguing papa Xico with lightning-like strikes of her teeth, latching onto his mane, his cheeks, his ears, bashing him forcefully with her chest, rearing up like a stallion to crash into him, pursuing him when he would like to have avoided her, all accompanied by sound effects that (were I not there to see for myself) would have brought me bolting from the house...it sounded like a battle to the death.

Interestingly enough, this all ceased if I wasn't present. While I was in their exercise paddock, Diva would ratchet her behavior to a level that I thought intolerable - I was actually encouraging Xico to give some back. If I walked to another area in the exercise yard, the bedlam followed me. They steered the antics specifically near me, in front of me where I couldn't help but see them. It finally occurred to me that this wasn't just an interaction between the two of them, this was a performance of sorts with me as audience. I was reminded of a summer evening a decade or so ago when I sat on the back porch feeling rather blue, watching my son Kyle shooting hoops. He recognized my mood and started shooting crazy shots, leaping and twisting and attempting the most impossible moves. It worked; I couldn't help but grin and I even eventually got off my duff and joined in. Diva and Xico certainly had me grinning and shaking my head. Then again, the dogs' behavior also had a similarity to much-earlier days when my two kids would huddle near my legs when I was trying to cook, even though far more entertaining games and toys were all over the family room and the great outdoors beckoned with endless possibilities...they wanted to pinch each other and fight over nothing in my presence.

So what was happening this wintry day? Were Diva & Xico really picking up on my sadness or despondency and trying to intervene? Was it as simple as vying for attention, like my kids' trying to get me to focus on them rather than the work I was involved in? Was it a display of strength, in effect saying hey, I am worthy - pick me as your next in command, your Right Hand, your Main Partner? When I left their exercise yard and moved to the next, the rambunctiousness subsided; when I returned, it escalated again. Clearly the message was aimed at me.

The canine mind is endlessly astonishing, and the more time I spend in their presence, the more fully I appreciate not just their behavior but comparable human gestures. I get glimpses of the complexity of feelings, thoughts, and motivations underlying behavior and attachment. What a privilege.