Shopping Cart
Your Cart is Empty
There was an error with PayPalClick here to try again
CelebrateThank you for your business!You should be receiving an order confirmation from Paypal shortly.Exit Shopping Cart

My Blog


I Can’t vs. I Don’t Know How

Posted on November 23, 2015 at 12:51 PM Comments comments (457)
Good morning!  It’s a beautiful, cold clear day in Mt. Shasta, and I’ve been thinking.  (I do that sometimes.)  Here’s my thought for the day:
When it comes to struggles, whether in dog training or “real life,” there’s a difference between saying It can’t be done vs. I can’t do it vs. I don’t know HOW.
There are things that truly can’t be done:  I can’t teach Tinker to fly like a bird (she doesn’t have wings) and I can’t fly like a bird myself without the aid of technology.  There are real and genuine limitations to what can be anatomically achieved.  Some people do have truly unrealistic expectations of their pets—or themselves, or the world around them.  Most of us are pretty good, though, and spotting the not-so-subtle difference between “My dog can’t learn to do algebra” and “My dog can’t learn to come when called reliably.”  In theory, one of these is genuinely impossible and the other one isn’t. 
I can’t do it” also has some validity.  We’re all unique individuals with different abilities and anatomies, and so are our dogs.  Though there are many tall, athletic people who can slam-dunk a basketball on a regulation court without a ladder, I am not one of them.  I’m not running a 4-minute mile anytime soon, either.  Tinker will probably never be the fastest dog in the agility ring (though she’s likely to be, pound-for-pound, among the most powerful.)  We have limitations, of course.  Except… there’s a catch there, too.
If something isn’t out of the realm of theoretical possibility, a good quick test is:  how sincerely and how hard have we tried?   Plenty of us pop off with various forms of  It can’t be done without having made the slightest effort to… train the dog, change our eating habits, make an effort to exercise more or take any of the steps necessary to achieve the so-called Can’t.  We’ve assumed the door is locked without even testing the knob.
If we look closely at I can’t do it (even if other people can) often what we find is—I can’t do it THAT WAY.  If there was a ticking time bomb and the only way to disarm it and save the world was to slam dunk a basketball, give me a ladder or a cherry picker and I’ve got it.  Obviously, that won’t work in a pro basketball game—it’s against the rules—but in real life with a dog in the home, if you can’t do it (that way) there’s almost always another way, or many ways, to achieve the same result.  Finding a way that’s a good fit for you and your dog is the trick:  maybe you can’t do it (or don’t want to do it) like Joe-- but you can do it like Bill or Mary or Jill.
Which comes to the last:  we can’t do anything if we don’t know HOW.  We have to know HOW.   If we don’t know HOW, we have to learn HOW.  HOW is the series of specific, concrete actions we need to DO to achieve our goals.
I hear too much can’t in dog training.  My dog can’t X, I can’t Y, dogs can’t really learn behavior G with method Z...  Curiously—though not surprisingly—most of that can’t is coming from people who simply and truly don’t know HOW.
No one likes to look stupid or ill-informed.  It’s all too human for us to blurt out, “Oh!  I can’t do that!”  or  “No way, that can’t work!”  when what’s really true is—I haven’t got an snowball’s idea in heck how to do that, or how to do it with that method—I wouldn’t even know where to start.  I always did it like THIS and if THIS doesn’t work, it’s all I know so I can’t.
And therein rests the problem, of course.  Can’t is a slamming door, the end of a road before the journey has even started.  Can’t = No.  No action, no trying, no effort, no change.  No learning.
Instead of saying Can’t in all its flavors, I’d like to suggest that we rephrase it.  Try saying instead, “I’d like my dog (myself, my world) to do X and I don’t know how to get there.”
Saying I don’t know HOW is two things: 
1)  An honest acknowledgement of where we are right now:  whatever we are doing isn’t working and we feel stuck. 
2)  An opportunity to ask powerful questions.  Questions like:
            If I don’t know how, what do I need to learn?
            Is there another way this can be done?
            Does someone else know how?
            Who can teach me?
I see many wonderful dog owners who get themselves stuck.  They want the dog to learn to do X, or to learn to stop doing Y.  They try a few things—the things they did with their last dogs, the things they already know.   But their current dog isn’t like their last dogs, and somehow, for some reason, the good old ways aren’t working.
The old adage where there’s a will, there’s a way is a good one.  If we surrender to Can’t, we won’t act.  We won’t keep trying, seek new information or consider other possibilities. 
If, on the other hand, we consider Maybe I don’t know HOW?  we have a wealth of possible actions spread before us.  Getting more information, trying something new, exploring who does know and what they know and how we can use it in our own training… loads of things to do that get us out of stuck and back on the road to successful training. 
Have a beautiful day with your dog. 

Help! My Dog Doesn’t Respect Me… (Part 3)

Posted on July 31, 2015 at 11:33 PM Comments comments (267)
Imagine this—my favorite analogy:  we decide we’re going to take up ballet dancing and we go to the studio for our first lesson.   When we walk in the door, how long does it take us to figure out Who’s the Boss?  For most of us, it’ll take about 30 seconds to recognize that Madam Tutu is the dance instructor, and since she’s highly acclaimed and looks fabulous in her leotard, we’ll be brimming with Respect for her.  Hooray, it took us 30-60 seconds to arrive at Leadership and Respect.
How long will it take us to learn how to dance?
Madam Tutu can spend the class fussing about us calling her by her honorific, curtseying to her correctly and applauding when she twirls her toes.  Or she can teach us ballet.  If you’re like me and your dog is like my dog, you really don’t care about being honored and applauded—you want your dog to learn Dance Steps for Real Life.  How to hold a Sit-Stay when guests arrive, Come when called, get his nose out of the kitty litter box, keep her paws off the kitchen counter and go Lie Down calmly when asked.  Walk on a leash without pulling, let the neighbor’s dog go by without barking, hold still while nails are trimmed and fetch means bring the ball back.  These are not theoretical concepts.  These are movements.
We know, and know very well, how to teach these behavior-movements without needing pain, fear or punishment.   But we have to be honest—it’s not like in the commercials.  Good behaviors don’t magically appear fully cooked in the oven without effort.  Like learning ballet steps, it takes time, practice and effort to get them good, reliable and right.
As we line up at the barre in Madam Tutu’s dance class, what’s going to matter most to our success as students isn’t whether we’re clear that she’s The Boss (we are) or how deeply we respect her (we already do.)  What’s going to matter the most is whether or not Madam Tutu is a good teacher.  If she is, here’s what she’s likely to do:
1.  She’s going to give us her undivided attention during class.  As a good teacher, Madam Tutu wouldn’t dream of trying to teach us fancy footwork while she’s answering the phone, doing her bills or dealing with a service guy coming to fix the busted air conditioner.   If she was multitasking during class, we’d be left dangling without instruction, get frustrated, resentful or bored.   Yet, too many pet owners try to teach their pups and dogs “on the fly.”  The time to teach new behaviors isn’t when the guests are arriving at the house, you’re trying to make dinner or you’re texting your buddies.  That approach usually looks like a train wreck of yelling, “No!  Stop!  Don’t!”  that teaches the dog very little—neither one of you can focus.  If you want to teach your dog effectively, set aside a few minutes each day to give the dog your undivided training attention.

2.  Madam Tutu will assess each student as an individual. A lean and athletic 20 year old may be able to work a lot harder than a slightly over-weight 50-something.  One student may have a bad knee, or feet that turn in at an awkward angle for ballet steps.  Another may have no rhythm or be musically challenged.  One student may be brimming with enthusiasm and eager to try the hardest moves; another may be painfully shy and so worried about getting things right that tears flow at even the mildest criticism.  Body type, overall health and fitness, prior experience and personality will all influence how these students learn best, and if Madam Tutu is a good instructor, she’ll be sensitive to the needs, immediate and long-term, of each pupil.  She’ll also have different approaches up her leotard to present the lesson in the ways most suited to the individual student.  Likewise, every dog is different, and before you start training, you should honestly assess your dog’s physical, mental and emotional abilities on that day.  Dogs that aren’t feeling well, are injured, had a traumatic experience on the morning walk, are prone to be timid or haven’t had enough exercise lately and are amped up may not be in the best state to learn.  Always address those issues first, before starting a training session, and adjust your expectations accordingly.

3.  Madam Tutu will have age and level-appropriate expectations.  She won’t expect her beginning students to perform at the same level as the advanced class that’s ready to tackle Swan Lake.  She won’t take the same approach or demand the same behaviors with children as she will with adults.  Children have shorter attention spans and can only focus for so long; they’re still “learning how to learn,” developing a work ethic and their motor muscle coordination isn’t fully developed.  Beginning adult learners are used to being highly competent—and highly rewarded--in their own areas of expertise and may be quickly frustrated when asked to try something that doesn’t come naturally to them.  Experienced adult learners often come with pre-existing baggage—years of rehearsing and practicing movements that they’ll fall back on as defaults and find difficult to change. 
Likewise, puppies aren’t fully developed in brains or bodies, have short attention spans, and may not have the emotional maturity to maintain focus in demanding or difficult situations.  Adult dogs that aren’t used to training may be out of learning practice, or not get the point; they may also have baggage that needs to be worked through before the new desired behavior becomes the new default.  Expecting puppies to perform “big dog” behaviors or adult dogs with years of practice doing unwanted behaviors to get instantly perfect is setting everyone up for failure.
These first three teaching points will be covered before Madam Tutu even opens her mouth to teach us our first step:  she’ll be ready with her undivided attention, she’ll have considered the abilities of her students and she’ll know what she can likely expect based on our age, previous experience and current level.  As she starts the lesson, she will, if she’s a good instructor, focus on the following points:
1.  She’ll make the dance experience safe and fun.  Madam Tutu really wants us to appreciate the joy of ballet, she wants us to improve as dancers, and to do that—we have to come back to class.  Learning ballet takes time.  If she scares the snot out of us with her autocratic manner, makes us feel stupid, frustrates us by trying to get us to do moves we’re not capable of doing yet, she’ll sour us on the whole dance experience.  Instead of being eager to get to her class, keen to learn and excited by our progress, we’ll quit and take up snowboarding or something.  What sets really good teachers apart is their ability to engage us in the process of our own learning.
Here, it’s quite different for our dogs—we have a choice about attending Madam Tutu’s class, and if we hate her or her approach makes us hate ballet, we can quit.  Our dogs aren’t always given a choice, and if they’re frightened of the class, hate the choke chain and aren’t inspired by the trainer, they can’t just leave.  They still quit, though:  they’re not going to have the optimal learning experience and they’ll check out mentally if not physically.
We don’t always have choices in life, not us, not our dogs—but as your dog’s guardian and advocate and teacher, this is one you can make on their behalf.  Our kids don’t have a choice about going to school, either, but just because they don’t have a choice doesn’t mean we have to tolerate bad teaching.  If your child goes to a school where they get bullied, the teacher is incompetent and your child’s grades suffer for it, you’d look for a better school, a better teacher and a better learning experience.  The choice may not be between School and No School; the choice can be between a school and learning experience that your child enjoys and is eager to participate in and a misery where they are forced, grudgingly, to learn and soured on the learning experience as a result.
With dogs, this is observable and measurable:  simply look at how they respond to the sight of the training tools, the instructor, the training location.  Owners report to me that their dogs quickly learn what night is class night, and are waiting eagerly at the door when it’s time to go.  I had only to pull out a clicker to set Fox alight with joy.  The mere sight of a platform or target stick can bring Tinker running.   It sounds so obvious that it’s silly, but it’s much easier to teach critters that are eager to learn than it is to teach critters that are distressed or don’t like the learning experience.
2.  She’ll communicate clearly in a way we can understand.  If Madam Tutu has been in ballet for any length of time, chances are she knows lots of fancy French terms for different positions and steps.  If she’s a good instructor, though, she won’t hurl them at our heads and expect us to know what the heck a la quatrième derrière means.  She will, patiently and carefully, introduce the moves one at a time.  She’ll probably model each one so we can see it, and then break down her instructions to baby steps:  lift the left leg.  A little bit higher, good.  Now, point the toe this way… lovely!  She won’t leap ahead until she’s certain we’ve achieved success with each individual instruction.   If we get confused and mistake quatrième derrière for quatrième devant, she won’t get upset or start worrying that we’re trying to be dominant.  She’ll slow down and go over it again.  She’ll understand that she’s trying to teach us some pretty complicated and unnatural moves, and if we don’t get them immediately, she won’t have a meltdown and start screaming at us in French.
Dogs aren’t just beginning ballet students—they’re a whole different species.  We’re often trying to teach them some pretty (for them) complicated and entirely unnatural behaviors, like ignoring food and squirrels and not exuberantly greeting people they’re thrilled to see.   Dog brains and human brains are just similar enough emotionally to fool us into thinking we’re on the same wavelength—but how they receive and process information is a totally different story.  Just as French makes perfect sense to Madam Tutu but none to us, telling our dogs to do behaviors they haven’t learned yet in an abstract verbal language that is meaningless to them is like howling a la quatrième derrière at the moon and hoping an elegant dance will appear.  Dogs need information presented at their level, broken down into bits and pieces they can process, and they need it to be clear and in generous amounts. 
3.  She’ll keep her students motivated. This is related to her first concern—keeping her students feeling safe and happy—but she also wants them to work.  Good instructors know how to get the best performance out of their students, how to encourage and inspire effort and how to reward it so that it continues to increase and improve.  Madam Tutu, as a good instructor, will have a keen eye for even tiny improvements and she’ll mark them immediately—yes, yes, much better!  That’s right, toes like that!  Good, good lift!  She’ll also be sensitive to how much and what kind of motivators her students prefer—a bold youngster might appreciate enthusiastic applause, while a shy person might prefer a quiet, “I was very impressed by your improvement, I can tell that you’ve been practicing,” in private after class.
Unlike our ballet students, who are presumably already interested in ballet or they wouldn’t be there, our dogs don’t sign themselves up for obedience classes.  They don’t always get the point of behaviors we’d prefer, like staying out of the tasty trash and leaving those pesky squirrels alone.  Some of them, like my Tinker, come with “hard-wired” behaviors installed by selective breeding that have them seriously inclined to do certain behaviors and ignore all else while doing them.  It’s up to us as good dog instructors to find ways to make our preferred behaviors meaningful to our dogs, to set it up so that our preferred behaviors lead to the dog’s preferred behaviors in some way or another.  If we’re really slick, our preferred behavior will become the dog’s preferred behaviors, because they’ll be associated with loads of pleasure, success and squirts of happy endorphins. 
There’s tons of science about exactly how this works, and why it works.  (Jean Donaldson’s classic dog training book The Culture Clash is an excellent place to start.)  The point here is, good instructors are good motivators.
4.  Madam Tutu knows exactly what steps she wants to teach and how to teach them.  Before she can teach us a pirouette or an Arabesque, she has to know exactly what they look like.  How else can she tell, and tell us, if we’re getting right or not?  She not only knows exactly what each step looks like, she probably has a well-thought out progression (from easiest to hardest) of each core move necessary to achieve the end result, and a progression for each series of steps.  If she’s been in the business for a long time, she may know by heart the exact arm position required of each dancer in the Dance of the Sugar Plums, and be able to spot an errant Sugar Plum elbow from the back of the dance hall.  In any case, she’s not making it up as she goes along:  she has a plan.
Her plan doesn’t include simply bellowing at us, “All right, everyone, dance The Nutcracker!
In my experience, this key point more than any other is the undoing of many a pet owner and their dog.  Pet owners know that they want the dog to “do something”—or very often, not do something.  But exactly what it looks like, they’re not entirely clear.  
I suspect this is part of the appeal of notions about “respect” or “dominance” or “leadership”—we hope, if we can just hit on the right emotion, attitude or energy, the dog will start popping out perfect behaviors like the fully cooked casseroles that appear by magic in commercials.  This relieves us all of the pressure to become clear about exactly the movement we want, what it looks like and then figure out how to teach it.  Not to mention putting in the real work and practice it takes to get there.  Maybe dogs can be taught “respect”—but I can’t teach it unless I know exactly what someone means by it.  What does “respect” look like?    
Behavior is movement.  Dog training, like ballet, is a skill:  like ballet, there’s technique to it—body mechanics and movements.  I have rarely met the dog owner who didn’t want their dog to hold a Sit-Stay when visitors come in the door—what most of them are missing is knowing how to teach such a thing.  Unlike Madam Tutu, pet owners often don’t have a clear plan in mind.  They don’t have years of experience using an excellent set of tried-and-true exercises, including the progressions for each step, with many different students of different levels and personalities.  So pet owners often end up getting frustrated and resort to the equivalent of bellowing, “Fido, dance The Nutcracker!  Quick, The Nutcracker!  No, no, stop, I said, The Nutcracker!
I can respect Madam Tutu until I am blue in the face, but I cannot dance The Nutcracker until I’ve learned to dance.  Your dog probably adores you like crazy (and if there is such a thing as “respect” in a dog’s brain, thinks you’re pretty awesome), but if they can’t figure out what you want, what they’re supposed to do—how they’re supposed to move—they can’t dance with you.
I don’t know if it’s possible to earn your dog’s “respect” (the brain thing, hmmm) but we can all become better teachers with better behaved dogs.  If you want to get your dog on your page, these are the points I would focus on:
1.  Give your dog your undivided attention during training sessions 
2.  Assess your dog as an individual on that day
3.  Have age and level-appropriate expectations
4.  Make the training experience safe and fun 
5.  Learn how to communicate clearly in a way your dog understands   
6.  Learn what motivates your dog and how to keep your dog motivated during training   
7.  Have a clear plan--know exactly what behavior you want to train and exactly what exercises you want to use to train it    

Help! My Dog Doesn’t Respect Me… (Part 2)

Posted on July 26, 2015 at 12:06 AM Comments comments (169)
In the first part of this blog, we ended with wondering where oh where do pet owners come up with a notion of “respect,” a word they normally don’t use when discussing dog behavior concerns.   And in my experience, the choice of words isn’t theirs at all.
Almost always, it turns out that they were just talking to an old school dog trainer they met.  Or neighbor who is a dog “expert.”  Or they read a book or saw something on TV.  It comes from somewhere other than their own direct experience with their dog, and now they’re worried about it.  Their dog doesn’t respect them, oh dear.  Clearly—as they’ve now been told—that’s the cause of all their problems with the dog not listening, being hyper or dominant.  And clearly the solution is—at least, they’ve been told—they must make their dog respect them.  Or earn their dogs’ respect.  If they could just do that, all problems would be solved.
There are two things about this that haunt me.
The first is a memory, long long ago in a galaxy far far away, of sitting in a theater at UCLA in film school learning how to “read” commercials.  There is a formula, and once you’ve been taught to see it, it’s pretty transparently funny.  It goes like this:
Step 1 (you have a problem whether you know it or not and/or there’s something wrong with you): Mopey family sitting around dining table, giving Mom deep looks of misery.  Dinner is boring and it’s her fault/she’s a bad mom. 
Step 2 (we have the answer you need):  Introduce product. 
Step 3 (here’s how it works):  Shot from inside the oven reveals completed casserole and Mom’s happy face in the oven door. 
Step 4 (emotional payoff):  Happy family at the dinner table forking down gobs of the stuff with huge smiles.  Mom is loved again, huzzah!
Please note that in Step 3, a few things were left out.  Like, getting dressed, finding the car keys, driving through traffic to the market, circling for 20 minutes to find a parking space, getting in the store, finding the box and forking over hard earned cash to buy the product.  Then going home and mixing it up, not to mention the 40 minutes at 350.  No, in commercials the product takes no visible effort to obtain, costs nothing and involves no work.   It magically appears fully cooked, with zero effort, in the oven, to the giddy delight of all.
If we map this on to our doggy respect issues, it goes like this:
Step 1 (you have a problem whether you know it or not and/or there’s something wrong with you): Wise dog expert of some variety tells you gravely that your dog’s bad behavior is caused by lack of “respect.”  Like Mom with the boring dinner, it’s implied that it’s your fault and/or you’re a bad pet owner. 
Step 2 (we have the answer you need):  Introduce product—Make Your Dog Respect You.
Step 3 (here’s how it works):  Wise dog expert may parade his/her “respectful” dog around to show you what the cooked casserole is supposed to look like, or, not having the dog handy, swear on some holy relic and mention their years and years of vast experience and deep love of dogs.   I must remind everyone here that our old sailor who still insists the world is flat had a lifetime of experience and deeply loved the sea. 
Step 4 (emotional payoff):  You dash off with a mad boost of confidence to go Make Your Dog Respect You.
What’s missing in Step 3 is—as with Mom and her casserole—the actual operations involved in creating the finished product.  Because if the actual operations were discussed in detail, it would become abundantly clear that what’s being sold isn’t Respect.  It’s Punishment. 
The operations required in the typical Make Your Dog Respect You product will generally include some kind of collar unpleasant to the dog (choke, prong or shock), often some hands-on (rolling, pinning, scruff shaking) and possibly some weird noises (hissing, yelling, shaking a can of pennies) meant to startle or frighten.  Since dogs, from all anatomical evidence, lack the giganto prefrontal cortex necessary to house a concept like respect, we can pretty much bet that what’s really being worked on in the dog’s brain are the Fear Circuits.
I have objections to that, but for this blog, my stronger objection is that pet owners are also being worked on—and the ploy is aimed at their Fear Circuits.
It’s old hat in marketing—if I want to sell something to men, I’m going to park my buzz words around notions of power, respect, control and sex appeal.  If I’m pitching to women, it’s going to be about safety, being loved and bonding.  So if I’m pitching punishment to the Mister, I’m going to talk a lot about your dog needs to respect you, you need to be the one in control, you need to show the dog your power.   The implication will be that unless you buy into the Make Your Dog Respect You product, you’ll lose manhood points—it’s not just the dog that won’t respect you.  For the Missus, I’m going to pitch punishment as all about safety—golly, you wouldn’t want Fido to get hit by a car because he doesn’t respect you, what if you can’t control him around the kids, and anyhow, Fido will love you more if he respects you, too, because he really wants rules and boundaries and leadership to feel safe himself.  Here the implication will be that if you don’t buy into the Make Your Dog Respect You product, you’re putting everyone in jeopardy by “spoiling” the dog too much, and you’ll lose “good mom” points.
What makes this sell viable is that I’m probably not a scum bucket salesperson—I’m deeply sincere.  I’m a passionate old salt genuinely worried that you’re going to fall off the edge of the earth or get eaten by dragons.  Because if I’m pitching this stuff, I probably didn’t examine the most recent science, the data or the evidence carefully and thoughtfully—I simply borrowed the pitch from what someone told me, received wisdom, tradition, unexamined.   It’s not like the old sailor who loves the sea and deeply believes that the earth is flat actually sailed forth to test his beliefs.  If he had, he would have circumnavigated the globe.
These blatant appeals to those deepest of fears—for a man, that his dog’s “lack of respect” is a reflection of his lack of manhood; for a woman, that the dog’s “lack of respect” is a reflection of lack of love--set off my film school-taught warning bells.  Like the casserole commercial, it seems ridiculous when you dice it fine—but anyone in marketing can tell you, it still works. 
And that’s the second thing that haunts me, the familiarity of historical and cultural baggage, like Ghosts of ideas past.  By now it should be clear that if the operations being proposed are all about force and punishment, the “Respect” being talked about isn’t a feeling of deep admiration arising in real brain circuitry in real dogs.  It’s not the warm and fuzzy side of respect.  To me, it sounds and plays out more like the Respect in a Culture of Honor sense, the respect aka fear.  It’s the lawless frontier, no one is looking after your best interests but you.  If you let your neighbor steal some apples from your orchard—if you show any sign of weakness or laziness in defending what’s rightfully yours--the next thing you know he’ll take your goats.  Then your cows, your money, your land and your wife.  What protects you and your property is your reputation as a Real Man who will deliver swift and immediate reprisals on any sign of trespass.  You need Respect.  You demand Respect.  Give ‘em an inch and they’ll take a mile. 
Cultures of Honor were and in some places still are very strong; without full cultural context, they can look (to our modern eyes in modern times) darned silly, criminal, wasteful.   Two teenagers shoot each other over a pair of sneakers, or because, “He looked at me funny.”  It seems too trivial for words, let alone gunfire, but the germ in the middle of it is Respect in the Culture of Honor sense.  If you let a guy “disrespect” you with a look, next thing, he’s stealing your sneakers (a symbol of your wealth and status); if he gets away with that, next it’ll be your car, your TV, your place in the neighborhood.  In this age-old context, loss of Respect (Dignity, Honor, Face, Status—pick your culture) boils down to the loss of personal safety, resources and reproductive success.  That’s the fear, anyway.  It used to be (and in some places still is) a rough reality of life.
In that framework, where your very survival depends on getting and maintaining Respect, you’re entitled to use Punishment if that’s what it takes.  You’re protecting your reputation and hence your land, cattle, etc., especially from those of perceived lesser rank (historically, that’d be various peasants, wives, children and most certainly all lowly critters.)  Heck, you’re practically obligated to use it:  if your “inferiors” don’t Respect you—if you let them walk all over you—the entire social order will come to some hideous end because of your weakness.   If we let our (peasants, crew, slaves, wives, children) “get away” with things, we’re not just going to lose everything we have, we’re undermining the natural order of the universe. 
Good marketing is always aimed at engaging our emotions—Fear and Desire especially—not our critical thinking skills.  Watched critically, commercials are a riot of blatant appeals to fear, lust, status.  Buying the product is rarely about the virtues of the product—it’s about how much cooler, sexier, happier we will be if we get it.  Our families will love us, we’ll be perceived as smarter and more beautiful, we’ll win the envy and regard of all our neighbors.  We’ll have, by golly, more Respect.   Yours for $19.95, and the shipping is absolutely free.
Now, I am not a fan of training dogs with pain and fear, so there’s no doubt about my bias.  What makes me squirm, though, is that haunting familiarity of ghosts of cultures past, where Respect was an entitlement of the Powerful and the rest of us got punished “for our own good.”  That’s not about dog behavior.  That’s not about good dog training, or good solid science.  It’s about sales, in this case, the selling of an idea to justify the use of force.  And I suspect this makes me particularly uncomfortable because within my lifetime, it wasn’t dogs we were talking about.  It was women, children, poor people, people of color.  It was us.
And cultural baggage aside, it’s a danged weird way to approach training a dog effectively.
Here’s a simple test:  on one side, place the latest popular Concept (Respect, Energy, Dominance, Leadership, etc.)  On the other side, place the Operations actually being used (yanks choke chain, gives a cookie, plays fetch, pets, yells at, zaps with a shock collar, praises).  Now, subtract one side.
If we only present the Concepts, with no Operations, what happens to the dog’s behavior?  (Picture our Wise Dog Expert standing on the other side of the yard radiating Respect, Energy, Dominance, Leadership, etc. as hard as he/she can.)
If we only present the Operations, with no Concepts, what happens to the dog’s behavior?  (Picture our Wise Dog Expert actively engaging the dog with well-timed signals and clear use of rewards and/or punishments and nary a conceptual thought in their head.)
One of these sides will get the dog trained.  The other may (or may not) sound cool and sell tickets.   But by itself, it achieves nothing.   Neither I nor any trainer—pet owner or pro-- needs a concept like Respect or Leadership or whatever to train a dog, or a cat, or a whale.  We need a clear picture of the behavior we want, a plan and some goodies (that give the animal pleasure) or baddies (that evoke fear, distress or discomfort) to motivate the animal with.  (Goodies preferred, of course.)  That’s all we need.  Really.
And on that, I give my final tip in this part:  in the simplest sense, behavior is movement.  I haven’t got a clue how to teach a dog to “respect” me like a feeling or concept, but I can certainly teach a dog to move in ways I like and consider respectful.   In Part 3, we’ll look at how.

Help! My Dog Doesn’t Respect Me… (Part 1)

Posted on July 25, 2015 at 1:54 PM Comments comments (383)
Well, there really isn’t any nice way to say it.  The chances are extremely good that—oh, no, it’s true!  Your dog has no respect for you at all.  If it’s any consolation, I’m fairly persuaded my dog Tinker hasn’t got a shred of respect for me--zero, zip, none.  My cats almost certainly don’t, at least not in any way that I can tell.  I can’t be entirely positive, of course, but I’d lay good money on it.  Depending, of course, on what we mean by respect.
When I Google the word, this is the sort of definition that pops up (heavily edited for brevity):
re·spect (rəˈspekt/noun): a feeling of deep admiration for someone or something elicited by their abilities, qualities, or achievements.
verb:  admire (someone or something) deeply, as a result of their abilities, qualities, or achievements.
This sounds innocuous enough, I reckon, suggesting that our pups and dogs ought to be looking up to us for our hopefully amazing abilities, qualities or achievements.  Except… Let’s assume that we as pet owners actually have those amazing abilities, qualities or achievements to look up to—we’ll just grant us that for the sake of argument.   That still leaves us with two sticky wickets. 
First, our dogs have to have a feeling of “deep admiration.”  Second, that feeling presumably leads to behaviors that are different or better than the behaviors they would have if they didn’t have “deep admiration” for us.  
Hmmm.  Here’s where being a “science-based” trainer becomes an entertaining exercise in critical thinking.  It’s okay to assert something, but then there’s got to be testing.  And evidence.  And proof.  If we are making an assertion that dogs have a feeling of “deep admiration” (or anything else), then by golly, let’s get into dem brains and find out where that feeling of “deep admiration” occurs (which part of the brain), the neurotransmitters and chemicals involved, the physiological changes and processes that take place.   Feelings of deep admiration (or anything else) are not based on air, or smoke and mirrors.  If some dogs have “respect” and some dogs don’t, we need to be able to tell the difference.  A real difference.  Because “feelings”—or more properly, emotions—are very much not smoke-and-mirrors.  
As the work of Jaak Panksepp and many other neurobiologists have shown in both human and non-animals, emotions aren’t ephemeral “thought processes,” but very real and specific (though complex) physiological responses that occur in very real and specific parts of the brain—parts shared in common by many animals.  Fear is a good example:  we can evoke a strong fear response in a critter by tweaking an electrode inserted in one part of the brain and get zero fear response in animals if those parts of the brain are damaged or blocked by drugs.  It’s anatomical.  It’s chemical.  It’s not conceptual.
What’s tricky here is remembering that we—human beings—do have a concept of respect.  We have in our brains giganto prefrontal cortexes that support exceptional capacities for conceptual thinking.  The concepts are conceptual, but the actual physical brain anatomy that allows us to form them is very, very real. Our dogs don’t share that anatomy.  If a concept of “respect” dwells in that highly developed portion of our brains, that’s not a portion of the brain found in our dogs.  In that case, we can’t get no respect because the dogs ain’t got no anatomy to produce it.   And this isn’t theoretical.  In the age of amazing advances in neuroscience, it’s testable.
So here’s my first nifty tip for training success (and good critical thinking.)  Behavior and anatomy are inextricably linked.   If someone wants to make a claim about a biological process (feeling, emotion, behavior, etc.)—show me the anatomy, baby.  No anatomy, no can do.  Tinker cannot fly without wings; my cats cannot breathe underwater without gills; I cannot see ultraviolet light with unassisted human eyes.  Anatomy rules and limits behavior possibilities, including what we can think and how we can feel. 
If respect is an emotion found in parts of the brain that we and dogs share, and not a concept formed in parts of the brain that only we have, we should be able to locate the physiological processes in the shared brain areas.  We should see these processes in “respectful” animals and not see them in “unrespectful” animals.   There should be neurotransmitters, hormones, proteins in action, parts of the brain lighting up during fMRI scans.  In short, we should be able to find “respect circuits” in a dog’s brain, just like we find “fear circuits,”  “joy circuits” and “rage circuits.”  Anatomy and anatomical processes don’t have to be a subject for debate, opinion or someone’s appealing marketing meme.  We really do have livers and leg bones and we can find and measure them.  If dogs have “deep feelings of admiration,” let’s find and measure the anatomy that generates them.  Until then…
This isn’t a trivial point—far from.  The recent advances in neuroscience and the rise of dogs as a sexy research subject has, in the last decade, resulted in an explosion of studies, dog cognition groups, working dog centers.  Lots of extremely talented researchers and scientists are at work exploring all kinds of thrilling questions.  We’re now reaching the point where we really can start having interesting and intelligent conversations about what’s going on inside the head of a dog—how they process information, how they view their world, what lights their brains up.  In casual terms, we can begin to have sensible, evidence-based discussions about how they “think” and “feel.”  This is a huge step forward in the field of animal behavior, not just for the fascinating things we are learning, but for the implications it will have in making us more effective as pet owners and trainers.  It also has profound implications for animal welfare, allowing us to become much better guardians and advocates because we have real facts—real data—to base our efforts on.  Very exciting stuff that deserves our close and careful attention.
But it’s hard to give it our close and careful attention if we cling to old ideas, or lump the old (utterly untested and probably wrong) ideas in with the new.  We’re human, though, so very human, which means when we make stunning discoveries that change our world-view—that the earth is round, tiny microbes can cause disease and antibiotics can cure them—we still have to go through several years of transition.  New ideas don’t always sit well with old sailors warning us about falling off the edge of the earth or encountering dragons, or with crusty village apothecaries wanting to treat us with leaches and bloodletting.
Which leads me to our second sticky wicket—if dogs do have some (yet unresearched) brain process that we could call “respect,” it presumably will lead to respectful behaviors.  Most especially, such respect should lead to good behaviors, the kinds of behaviors we like.  The logic seems to be, “If your dog respects you, he will DO or NOT DO behaviors x, y and z.”  Automatically.  All out of “respect.”  And here I must make a confession about something I find both peculiar and very telling.
In over ten years of behavior consulting with the public at the shelter, and in my private practice, the number of folks who have had complaints about their dogs’ “respect” or lack thereof have been very few indeed.  Pet owners with dog behavior problems do have real concerns, but they use a different, more direct language.  In all, the vast majority of their concerns lump into three broad categories. 

1. Their dog doesn’t listen to them.  (Doesn’t do behaviors they want them to do, like come when called, or stop doing unwanted behaviors, like jumping up.) 
2. Their dog is “hyper.”  (Has more energy than they expected or appreciate, or issues with impulsiveness or attention-seeking.) 
3. Their dog is “Alpha” or “dominant.” (Which usually means not getting along with other dogs, and almost always, the dog is fearful.)
The word “respect” doesn’t come out of their mouths.
So where oh where does this entirely unsupported, unproven and untested notion of “respect” come from?  In Part Two, we’ll find out!

Saying Hello and the Need for Empathy

Posted on February 1, 2015 at 2:32 AM Comments comments (164)
Imagine you are walking down the street, minding your own business and enjoying a leisurely stroll in peace and quiet.  Around the corner comes a parent walking their small (or not so small) child by the hand.  Suddenly, the child breaks free and comes rushing at you, waving a knife and yelling, “&^%#* you, go away!  %$#@&!  Get away, you %$#&*@!”  The parent shrugs, smiling as he or she says, “Oh, don’t worry, he doesn’t mean it.  He just does that at first, he’ll calm down.”
Of course, it’s nice to know that Junior isn’t likely to actually stab us while he’s hurling curses at our heads.  But none of us would think there wasn’t something very wrong—seriously wrong—with this picture.  Maybe the kid has his reasons—very good reasons.  Maybe he’s got issues, or was recently attacked by another kid, or he’s afraid of people wearing hats.  Maybe he never will stab anyone, ever.  None of that really helps.
The problem is, as greetings go, waving a knife and cussing isn’t friendly or even neutral.  It’s emotionally charged.  And emotionally charged greetings tend to elicit emotionally charged responses in the animal receiving them.  Which means by the time Mum or Pop have explained that Junior doesn’t really mean it and wouldn’t really do it, it’s far, far too late.  I’ve seen a knife, been cussed at and my heart is already racing.  Now I’m upset and I’m ready to fight back, no matter what excuses come out of the parent’s mouth.  I’m an animal with a Fight/Flight System, too, and one that will readily over-ride rational thought to protect myself from a perceived threat.  This is not, as they say, the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
If we map this on to dogs… oh dear. 
As a professional trainer and a pet owner, I’m amazed at how much we have made a mess of this—in both directions.  On-leash reactivity—dogs that get overly excited, bark or lunge when they see another dog on leash—is one of the most common behavior problems that I and many trainers hear about.  And yet, I really wish we heard more about it.  If Dogs Greeting Badly is bad enough, maybe worse are the pet parents who believe:
1)  “Oh, well, Feisty is like that,” and since Feisty doesn’t actually stab anyone, it’s okay (especially if Feisty is a small-breed dog)
2)  gentle, well-mannered Sadie should tolerate that kind of crud from every dog she meets, because “good dogs” suck it up and ignore the knife and the cussing like Saint Lassie on a cracker
Alas, both of these views get me downright crazy, because with them we’re missing something.  Seriously missing something important.  And in a word, it’s Empathy.
Dogs are emotional animals.  They share with us and other higher mammals primary emotions like fear, anger, frustration and joy.  And as we learn more and more about our brains and emotional circuitry, one thing is becoming increasingly obvious:  an event doesn’t have to cause us physical injury to do real damage.  Traumatic events that result in great fear can do very real harm.  Fear, anxiety and other kinds of acute or chronic stress messes with our brain chemistry, derails healthy brain function and just plain hurts.  This is true for our dogs as well.
And dogs, like us, come in a wide variety and range of temperaments, abilities and social skills:  they are all individuals.  One of the hotter trends in canine research right now has to do with the notion of personality in dogs, and though researchers are still challenged by how to describe and capture the essences, pretty much everyone agrees that there are essences to capture.  Dogs vary greatly in traits like boldness/shyness (our introversion or extroversion), resilience and sensitivity, even optimism and pessimism.   So, as with people, one dog’s Traumatic Event may be another dog’s So What? and neither dog is a bad dog.   In behavior, the fairest comparisons we can find are either statistical or functional:  we can say if the response is typical/average (in the fat of the bell curve) and we can say something about if the response works—if it’s adaptive in the animal’s best interests and quality of life.  Judgments about “good/bad” or “right/wrong” don’t tend to get us anywhere helpful, especially when it comes to emotions. 
So here we are with Feisty nutting up on the end of a leash, barking and snarling while another dog walks by with her owner.   Let’s say Feisty’s owners let their snarling dervish drag them over because Feisty is always like that and anyhow he never bites, he’ll calm down.  Here’s what we know so far:
1.  Feisty is emotionally upset (calm, relaxed, happy dogs don’t bark, snarl and lunge)
2.  Feisty is sending emotionally charged social signals to the other dog (bark, snarl and lunge are neither friendly not polite)
3.  Feisty is rehearsing being upset and sending charged social signals (practice makes perfect)
4.  Feisty’s behavior is being reinforced (We know that because he keeps doing it:  behavior that’s rewarded increases in frequency, duration and intensity)
He’s always done it doesn’t make it healthy or normal.  He never bites doesn’t mean that what he does never hurts—if he’s scaring the snot out of other dogs and their owners, he can be doing real, lasting damage.  And to top it off, I seriously doubt that Feisty’s owners like or prefer the behavior—back to that in a moment.
Now, let’s consider the other dog—let’s say Sadie--walking by getting barked and snarled at—or worse, having the cussing or posturing dog rushing up in her personal space.  And here, we’re playing Russian Roulette with both dogs.
The whole point of greeting between social animals is negotiating consent to engage and enter space.  How much greeting and how much negotiating goes on depends on a host of factors:  familiarity, social conventions or rituals, desire to make social contact, skill and individual preferences among them.   If we—or the dogs—already know each other very well, greetings may be minimized to a fast swipe and cut to the chase-- “Hi!  You won’t believe what happened at work!” for humans and almost immediate play (or polite ignore) between dogs. 
If we’re less familiar or complete strangers to each other, we’ll probably go more slowly.  We see each other.  We nod or wave.  We say the right polite noises, shake hands, comment on the weather.  All the while, we’re assessing each other with three core questions in mind:  1) Are you safe? 2) Do you have anything I like or want?  3) Are you/am I willing to consent to this interaction?  The harder those questions are to answer, the longer we’ll take to negotiate—if it’s worth it to us.  If we’re not much interested in a hot date or deep conversation, the person seems a little sketchy or high maintenance, we’ll bail out at the earliest polite opportunity:  they may have something we like or want, but they may be dangerous or getting it is going to be too much work.  And we always reserve the right to withdraw our consent (most of us do try to be polite) if things go sour or slide toward places where we feel unsafe or not interested.
This is dogs all over, which brings us back to Feisty exploding at the end of his leash and Sadie walking by with her owner.   If the two dogs are brought into contact, Sadie—faced with an upset dog sending unfriendly social signals—is forced to make some pretty complicated social assessments very quickly:
A.  Is Feisty’s display for real—a real threat that she needs to take seriously?  (Are you safe?)
B.  Does she have any reason to want to interact with this dog? (Anything here I like or want?)
C.  What does she have to do to get out of this situation?  (How do I withdraw consent?)
Sadie’s decision challenge isn’t that easy, and if Feisty is suddenly in her face, it’s really not easy.  She’s startled or rushed.  She’s trapped on the end of her own leash and can’t get space.  Nothing about Feisty is immediately friendly or appealing, she doesn’t have any way of understanding the human assurances that Feisty always does that and he never bites, and if she’s like many mature adult dogs, the motivating desires that might counter-balance the safety/danger issues—the puppy urge to play or make new doggy friends--are long gone:  Feisty has nothing she wants.   Depending on Sadie’s age, confidence, skill, socialization, experience and personality, she may or may not have the ability to make the needed assessments, or make them that quickly--as with us, age, skill and experience matters.  If she’s a green, naïve or shy dog without a ton of socialization and experience dealing with the Feistys of the world, she may very well take his display seriously.  After all, he looks plenty aggressive to her.
Are here begins our doggy Russian Roulette:  All Sadies are not alike.  Even “Sadies” of the same breed, age, gender and experience are not alike.   I don’t know why we struggle with this so much, since we certainly know better about ourselves:  not every person of pick-your-stereotype is like that.  Worse, although any individual Sadie has a personality and history her owners recognize as “like her,” Sadie is a higher mammal with feelings and she can have a rotten day when she’s simply “not herself.”  And how she behaves will change with age and experience—things she tolerated or put up with in her puppyhood or adolescence may not go unanswered when she’s a fully mature and more confident dog. 
So in Feisty’s on-leash misadventures, he may encounter some or all of these Sadies:
1)  Confident, relaxed, experienced and highly sociable Sadie:  Oh boy, another exploding Feisty, bring him on, maybe he’ll chill out and be good for a play session after he gets a sniff.  (She’s safe and might even enjoy the encounter.)
2)  Confident, experienced and not-particularly-sociable but polite Sadie:  Oh crud, another @#$%&^ Feisty, let him sniff me quick so I can get back to chasing my ball. (She’s safe but won’t enjoy the encounter and if she runs into too many Feistys, her tolerance may wear thin.)
3)  Confident, experienced and not inclined to be polite Sadie:  Feisty has three seconds to sniff my bum and get over it before I take his fool head off.  (She will be safe for the allotted three seconds and she’s not enjoying that… after that, Feisty better cool it or else.)
4)  Confused, unskilled or for any reason inclined to take Feisty’s emotionally charged greeting seriously Sadie (super confident version):  I do believe that Feisty is challenging me to a duel.  Come closer, darling.  Sniff me.  Make my day.  (She will stand tall, look stiff as a board and then nail his sorry behind.  She may enjoy that part of it.)
5)  …For any reason inclined to take Feisty’s emotionally charged greeting seriously and get reactive herself Sadie:  OMG, what the heck is he saying?  Huh?  You talkin’ to me?  You talkin’ to me like that?  (By now, both dogs are lunging at each other at the ends of their leashes, so hopefully the owners won’t let them greet at all.)
6)  …For any reason inclined to take Feisty’s emotionally charged greeting seriously Sadie (shy version):  Oh no oh no he’s going to attack!  Help Help!  Maybe if I just shut my eyes and stay still he’ll go awaaaay… (Safe for the moment but fear is toxic and cumulative—leading to next.)
7)  …For any reason inclined to take Feisty’s emotionally charged greeting seriously Sadie (defensive version):  Oh no oh no he’s going to attack!  Help Help!  Get away or I’ll bite you… (She would love to run away, but she’s trapped on her leash and feels forced to growl, snap or bite him to get space.)
There are more Sadies in the Russian Roulette of dog greetings:  the point is, the longer and more frequently Feisty is allowed to act out or rush up with overly-charged emotional greetings, the more likely he will encounter some of the riskier ones.  Spin the cylinder often enough and the hammer will fall:  Feisty will rush up on the wrong Sadie, or a wonderful-until-now Sadie having an off day.  If he’s lucky, Sadie will pull her toothy punches and there won’t be any or much physical damage.  That doesn’t mean there won’t be damage, to one or both dogs and one or both owners.  Fear is toxic and cumulative, for dogs and people. 
The flip side of this is also true:  the more Feistys Sadie has to endure, the greater the odds that she’ll become more fearful, more sensitive, more inclined to take offense.   If nothing else, she’ll become older and like many dogs, less tolerant of the drama of poor social displays.  The more of these encounters she has to weather, the higher the odds that one day, she’ll have had enough already.  The weird part of this is, for some reason, an alarming number of pet owners blame Sadie for giving it back, including Sadie’s own loving and responsible owners.  Like somewhere it is written that Good dogs always take crap.  Feisty’s owners are often shocked and outraged because—sometimes after years of getting away with this greeting nonsense—another dog finally took exception.  Sadie’s owners wring their hands because their gentle Sadie is suddenly “aggressive.”  And here’s where we all need our Empathy Hats on—for everyone, dog and human.
Feisty’s owners aren’t necessarily bad, irresponsible pet parents—not at all.  They have a dog with a difficult issue for them.  They’ve learned to live with it, ignore it or be in denial about it because they don’t knowhow to fix it.  They may not even know that it can be fixed, or at least vastly improved.  They’ve resigned themselves and they’ve made up a soothing story to console themselves—usually some version of dogs like Feisty (breed, size, background, he’s a rescue, was attacked as a puppy, the list goes on) are just like that.  They’ve dialed down their Empathy Meter and no longer take Feisty’s emotions seriously.  After all, he never bites—it’s harmless, right?
Meanwhile, Sadie’s owners feel like they have a really good dog that suddenly snapped or attacked “out of nowhere” and they’re shocked and hurt.  And Sadie is a really good dog—so good that they’ve gone to sleep at their own Empathy Switch and stopped considering that maybe, just maybe, Sadie doesn’t want or like to have to deal with Feistys snarling in her face.  Any more than you or I want to deal with emotionally charged people yelling curses at us day in and day out.  Those of us who have jobs that require us to deal with difficult people on a regular basis better have—if our employers are smart—specialty training, plenty of management support and loads of compensation for doing it graciously.  If we don’t, you bet one day we snap, quit or storm off the job.  We burn out.  Good Sadies burn out too if their owners leave them dangling at the end of a leash with no specialty training, managerial support or compensation. 
And that’s really important to understand:  getting to Say Hello to Feisty isn’t compensation for Sadie.  Yes, many dogs enjoy greeting unfamiliar dogs—but plenty of them don’t.  And that’s assuming the other dog is friendly, or at least polite, and Feisty isn’t.  For shy, sensitive, often intelligent and emotionally tender dogs, getting to meet Feisty is a flat-out nightmare, not a joy.  Why would Sadie want to Say Hi to a dog that’s barking and lunging at her with bug eyes and hackles up?   Like, are we all thrilled to have to deal with a cussing customer with an attitude?
What Feisty needs is his owner’s help.  He needs to stop practicing high risk behaviors like barking, lunging or charging at other dogs and learn how to relax, ignore or be calm around other dogs.  Whether he ever bites or not, physically injures another dog or not, he’s going to scare some and some quite badly, and that’s a rotten thing to do to another dog that has feelings, too.  And sooner or later, he’s going to hit a Sadie that’s going to hit him back—and some Sadies can hit really, really hard.  Lastly, he’s not barking, lunging and carrying on because he feels good:  most likely he’s frightened, upset and socially confused, and his quality of life is suffering for it.  We don’t measure human suffering by how violent a person gets:  we understand that someone can be deeply unhappy, deeply frustrated, lonely, anxious or depressed without taking up murder or going postal.  Dogs shouldn’t have to bite to get us to notice their distress.  Empathy, please.
Sadie needs her owner’s help, too.  She deserves to be both respected and protected:  to never be forced to deal with Feisty without her own consent.  If she is put in that unfortunate position with no possibility of escape, we will all hope that she has the skill and understanding to pull her punches and do little or no damage.  But she’s an emotional creature, she has good days and bad days, days when her hips hurt, days when she’s nervous about an approaching storm, when another dog jumped her last week, and when it’s just one darned Feisty too many for her to cope with.  I’m sure if she could she would join us in feeling deep compassion for Feisty’s baggage—but it’s his baggage, not hers, and she shouldn’t have to be the victim of it.  If she isn’t a genuine fan of the Feistys of the Dog World, be her advocate. Give her an acceptable way to withdraw her consent if she doesn’t want to greet, like moving away, getting behind you or gazing deeply into your eyes with her “Please get me out of here” look.  Then, get her out of there.  She won’t have to snap or growl or bite if you hear her and act on her behalf.  Empathy.  Please.
Like many human children, confident puppies and adolescent dogs are often so eager to make social connections and play that they’ll rush in without a single thought about safety or consent.  It doesn’t seem to occur to them (until they’ve had a few learning experiences) that there are mean or grumpy people/dogs out there—animals that aren’t safe and might hurt them or that aren’t interested and don’t want to play. As with our human children, it’s up to us to step in and both protect and negotiate the best interests not only of our pups, but of everyone:  letting our boisterous puppy flatten a timid old Toy breed or bully a shyer pup with non-consenting “play” is no more acceptable than letting our wild teenager knock over Mrs. Wilson on crutches or dump paint over a younger child’s head.  Healthy social interactions and play are fun and consensual for both parties; if it’s not, stop it.  Don’t let your puppy or dog practice it, and don’t let your puppy or dog be a victim of it.
For shy puppies or socially sensitive dogs, protect them at all costs.  Exposing your good dog to a gang of “thugs” at a local dog park or over-bearing greetings from random dogs on walks is no more productive than sending your honor student to hang out with the wrong crowd or allowing your teenage daughter to be propositioned by random men.  Your shy, sensitive dog won’t learn anything you want him to learn from dogs with worse social skills.  Select play mates carefully:  gentle, friendly, socially polished dogs that can charm your dog, boost his confidence and teach him how much fun being with another dog can be.  Shy dogs need kind and patient canine mentors to blossom, special friends they can trust and count on.
Please teach your puppies and adolescents to look to you and wait for permission before greeting other dogs you meet on leash walks.  That way, you and the other owner can decide if you want your dogs to greet at all before the dogs are hurling at each other’s heads.  Having your dog learn that she has to exercise self-control, listen to you and calm down before she’s allowed to Say Hello will help take the emotional charge out of greetings and reduce the odds of unfortunate incidents.  If all owners would do that, there would be far fewer Feistys and Sadie wouldn’t have to snap at them. 
If another owner doesn’t want their dog to meet yours, please respect their wishes and give them space.  Yes, we know all dogs love me and my dog is friendly; maybe we have our reasons or maybe we’re just awful people.  No matter:  we declinedconsent, just like you asked if you could join us at our family picnic table and we said, no, thanks.  Most people wouldn’t dream of continuing to insist on a seat at the table, so I’m not sure why being asked to keep our dogs under control and out of another dog’s face is so danged hard for pet owners to swallow, but we can all remember this:  healthy social interaction is always consensual.  If someone, for any or no reason, declines to consent for themselves or their dogs, no means no isn’t rocket science.   It won’t hurt you or your dog to wave cheerfully and pass on by; it may get someone hurt if you don’t.
Consider the Golden Dog Rule: do not let your dog do unto other dogs what you would not want their dogs to do unto yours.  And no, small dogs are not exempt.  If you do not want my 65 lb. built-like-a-linebacker Catahoula mix to have a go at your tiny dachshund/Chihuahua mix, do not allow your little dog to have a go at her.   Many dogs don’t seem to have a good grasp of relative size; most of them are aces at self-defense and Tit-for-Tat.
Lastly, please don’t think that your dog has to meet every dog they see or love every dog they meet to have a rich and fulfilled life.  Some dogs, like some people, are social butterflies and are thrilled to go to parties and make new friends.  Most dogs, though, are like us:  the older they get, the more they enjoy the quiet predictability of familiar, compatible friends, quiet conversation over a glass of wine with a good buddy they know instead of wild nights at the dog park bar.  For those dogs, and shy or socially sensitive dogs, quality is more important than quantity, and less is definitely more.
There are wonderful books, programs and training exercises that can do much to improve Feisty’s public presentation, making him, if not a charming social butterfly, a polite dog that can keep his cool and let the dogs walk on.  Love is a powerful four letter word; for these dogs, though, help is a stronger one. 

Two Things We Need to Know About Our Dog’s Performance (and Ours), Part II

Posted on November 22, 2014 at 3:26 AM Comments comments (91)
In the first part of this blog topic, I talked about how stress can impact both our performance and that of our dogs—with an underlying point in mind.  And that point was:  expecting better performances from our dogs than we could achieve with comparable training under similar circumstances is expecting way too much. 
Dogs are outstanding at being dogs, certainly: Tinker is aces at chewing bones, chasing raccoons and sniffing poo.  If the performances we wanted from our dogs were entirely up their natural alleys, we’d all have obedience champs.  But most of what we want them to do is not that:  we’d rather they did weird humany-type things like ignore food on a table, walk exactly at our sides like a couple holding hands and leave off chasing squirrels because they love us.  We want, in short, them to behave like civilized sort of folk dialed into our human lifestyles:  performances every bit as peculiar to them as dressing fashionably, speaking eight languages and dashing off algebraic equations are to me.   And just as I could, possibly, with sufficient education and training, become a fashionista, learn French and figure out the square root of something (x)a – (b), many dogs, thanks to thousands of years of domestication, can manage to meet our odd demands remarkably well.
But there has to be that sufficient education and training.  And the higher and more challenging the demands, the more they need of it.  Which leads me to my second, potentially painful point about performance—and expectations.
If you have a dog and you’re keen to teach the dog Behavior X, it makes perfectly good sense to look to someone who has taught many dogs to do Behavior X.  In fact, it looks even more fabulous to Go Big:  not just someone who has taught dogs Behavior X, but someone who has won trophies and ribbons for teaching dogs Behavior X.  Wait—let’s Go Bigger—let’s, by gum, go to the top of the mountain—the trainer/handlers who have won National or World Championships with dogs doing Behavior X.   Because golly, anyone who is among the elite of performance stars must surely know what it takes to get there. 
If you want to learn how to act, who better than Meryl Streep?  For golf, Tiger Woods.  For training a dog, the latest and greatest in world champion protection, obedience or agility dog trainers.  And if Ms. Streep achieved success using the Emotional Chameleon Method of Acting, surely we can’t go wrong adopting EC Method.   If Mr. Woods became the number one in golf by using Y Brand Golf Clubs and the Secret Tiger Swing Technique, that must be the ticket to golf success.  So naturally if Olag the exotic dog trainer from Bulgaria won his World Championship Schutzhund title with his Magic Bulgarian Police Dog Method, we should all run out and buy his DVDs and emulate the Magic Bulgarian Police Dog Method with our pooches at home.  Makes sense, right?
The appeal is obvious, even intuitive, and has just enough truth in it to get us into trouble.
Here’s the part that is true:  if we want to get better at something, we can and should take advantage of our very wonderful experts in all fields.  Whether it’s improving our cooking, our money management skills or our ability to get Fido to perform better around the house or in a doggy sport, there are people out there who can really help us.  Finding role models and emulating them is an excellent path to skill development.  Being inspired by the heroes and champions in our favorite performance activities is—well, inspiring.  There are a few “catches,” though.
I have no doubt that if I took a series of master acting classes from Ms. Streep, I would be a better actor for it.  I would likely make improvements in that performance craft, maybe get more in touch with my Inner Emotional Chameleon.  So, no doubt, have the thousands of hopeful young actors who have followed her career and attempted to emulate her.  What is immediately striking, though, is this:  not a single one of them has ever become Meryl Streep. 
They may have become much improved actors, they may have even gone on to great accomplishments in their own rights, but they don’t have what Ms. Streep has and never will, however great they become and however many Oscars they rack up on their own mantels.  Because, simply, there is only one Meryl Streep.  And her greatest performances were singularities--precious rarities, by definition.  The Oscar for Best Performance by a Leading Actress isn’t given out like candy--it’s one a year.  And what made her great performances great had very, very little to do with her acting method and very much to do with her acting talent
Among other things.  An Oscar-winning performance in a major motion picture isn’t just about an acting method, or acting talent—it’s a collaborative effort involving the right script, the right director, a damned good editor, composer, lighting director, marketing and boatloads of money.  It can also come down to some other amazing Oscar-worthy actress not having a particularly juicy part that year playing a beloved historical figure with a photogenic disease and a glorious death scene. 
It turns out, in short, that learning Meryl Streep’s acting method isn’t likely to get me, or those thousands of young hopefuls, an Oscar any time soon.   I also have to have some things comparable to Ms. Streep’s talent, Ms. Streep’s cheekbones, Ms. Streep’s writer, director and agent—and, I would venture, her years of experience honing her craft and a formidable professional work ethic. 
Still, I would expect my imaginary acting lessons with Ms. Streep would be helpful to me as an actor:  given that I’m starting at, say, a 2 out of 10 on the Act-O-Meter, I might learn enough to achieve a 4 or 5 or even a 6.  When it comes to my hypothetical golf lessons with Tiger Woods, though, I think we would have more of a problem.
The problem is:  Tiger’s too good and unless he’s a brilliant instructor as well as a golfer, he may not know how to come down as far as he would need to.  Which would be, oh, around a .5 on the Golf-O-Meter.  I have swung a golf club before; sometimes the ball goes somewhere vaguely promising.  I know the difference between a Driver and a Putter.  I haven’t actually hit anyone with my backstroke, though I would advise Mr. Woods to keep a safe distance.  But for all practical purposes, I’m not ready for Tiger, and golf—unlike acting—is a physical skill that simply can’t be faked.  I can fake acting—that’s rather the point.  I can’t fake a golf swing.  And at my level, to learn the first fundamentals of a proper golf swing, I’d probably be infinitely better off with the lovely pro at our local golf resort, who is used to working with rank beginners like me.  I might, if I won the lotto, quit my job, and took up golf with an all-consuming passion, eventually become good enough to benefit from my lessons with Mr. Woods.  Or, I might not.  Probably not.
I can certainly become a better golfer, possibly even a reasonably proficient recreational golfer; a professional level golfer, no.  If I had started when I was tiny following Mama or Papa around the club (which is how most pros get started), I would have had the 10-15 years of practice perfecting my swing by the time I reached the age to compete in college.  If I was a naturally talented athlete with loads of practice in another stick/ball hand-eye coordination sport—baseball, hockey, tennis—I might have been able to switch to golf in my teens and still have enough years to get enough swing practice in.  Now, even with Mr. Woods’ brand of golf clubs (wildly outside of my price range, I’m sure) and instruction in the Secret Tiger Swing Technique, I still couldn’t get there—my days of athletic prime are a decade or two behind me, and I simply haven’t got enough physically fit years left to practice the Secret Tiger Swing.  Not long enough to get really good at it.
And as with Ms. Streep, what makes Tiger Woods Tiger Woods isn’t a method.  It’s having the talent, the athletic prowess, the drive, the ambition and the work ethic it takes to live, eat, drink and breathe golf for years from a very young age.  It’s having the right coaches, the chances to play the right tournaments, get sponsors, a good manager, etc.  It’s avoiding injuries (sadly, he hasn’t been able to for much of his later career.)  And sometimes, winning a Major Tournament, like winning an Oscar, comes down not to hitting the clutch hole-in-one but to the opponent missing a crucial putt at exactly the wrong time.
World-class athletes, like world-class actors, are unique, rarities by definition:  plenty of young golfers have Tiger’s clubs, Tiger’s outfits and try to copy Tiger’s swing.  They don’t necessarily have Tiger’s talent:  method isn’t enough.  In fact, what Tiger Woods brought to the next generation of golfers had precious little to do with method or swing technique:  what the new kids on the golf block learned most from his example was to treat themselves like athletes—go to the gym, work out, get in shape and stay in shape.
Which leads me, at last, to Olag the exotic dog trainer from Bulgaria with his World Championship title and his Magic Bulgarian Police Dog Method.  Or it might be Bessie the latest agility guru and her RUN! Method or Flo the amazing long-time obedience goddess with her HEEL! Method or Serena the lovely Freestyle champ with her PARTNERS method or… pick your doggy sport or behavior issue, there will be experts—the elite of the elite who consistently and reliably reach the pinnacles of their games.  They are amazing trainers, every darned one of them, and they have the titles and trophies to prove it. 
What they don’t have—what none of us has—is the slightest useful shred of scientific research or evidence to support (or deny) that they reached their successes because of a method.
And here it gets murky.  What, exactly, is meant by a method?   We could say that Clicker Training, Lure/Reward Training, Choke-Chain Training or Shock Collar Training are all methods—but that’s clearly not fine enough.  Lots of people—millions of people—use one or more of those methods, just like thousands of actors are emulating Meryl Streep and thousands more copying Tiger Woods’ golf swing.  Only a handful of them are doing it well enough to win world championships or elite titles.   If simply adopting the right magic method were the key to competition and training success, everyone should be winning.  Clearly not.
So it looks like the method itself isn’t the point: it’s how excellently and precisely the method is being executed.  And this boils down to:  what is the trainer doing?  Not sayingDoing.  And therein lies a whole other kettle of fishies.
Elite competition dog trainers, like athletes in all sports, are a diverse bunch who achieved their success on the Many Roads to the Mountain.  Some of them actually do have Ph.D.’s in animal behavior or the like; some of them are outstanding communicators with dogs but not so much with fellow human beings.  Some of them are entirely aware and fluent in why what they’re doing works; some of them merely know that it works and that’s good enough for them.  So some of them will say things that are absolutely astute and accurate to the science of animal behavior:  what they say really is a reflection of what they do.  Some of them will talk mystical mush or weird faux ethology that may refer to dogs on another planet somewhere, but not this one here:  what they say is miles and miles away from what they actually do.  But it may be entirely irrelevant in either case.
I could memorize every word Meryl Streep ever said about acting or every word Tiger Woods ever said about golf.  It will get me no closer to her talent or his golf swing.  There may—or may not—be kernels of wisdom I can glean, provided I can find a way to translate them from theory to practice.  There might be other equally accomplished actresses, though, who believe the secret to their success is making sure they drink enough orange juice and always have a blue feather on the set; there may be other almost equally accomplished golfers who attribute their winning ways to not washing their socks on Sundays and keeping a lucky rabbit’s foot in their golf bag.  Performers—even elite performers—can be extremely stressed in their rarefied air, and extreme stress can lead to the wackiest sorts of magical, superstitious thinking.  These folks—we often refer to them as Naturals—are brilliant performers who really haven’t got a clue how they do what they do.  Their actions are fabulous but the action bone isn’t connected to the thinking bone.  They can make outstanding competitors but often lousy coaches:  what they really do is intuitive, even unconscious, and not something they can explain.
In dog training, this often shows up as the followers of the elite competition gurus doing the equivalent of drinking lots of orange juice, waving blue feathers, not washing their socks and keeping a rabbit’s foot handy.  The rabbit’s foot might have some merit as a motivator in a pinch; the rest, of course, is rubbish.  Using our dog training guru’s exact cue words, brand of leash or preferred line of tug toys likely won’t hurt, any more than wearing Tiger Woods’ brand of golf shirts will cause harm.  I’m sure the cues, the toys and the shirts are all excellent, first quality choices.  They just may have little or nothing to do with the skills actually at stake:  wearing Tiger’s line of shirts will not improve my golf swing.  It may provide a bit of a placebo effect:  more confidence, inspiration, feeling better about myself as a golfer.  These things do count in the mental aspects of performance and in my athletic sporting days, I loved my little quirks and rituals.  But these superstitious grace notes, however endearing, aren’t the cause of performance success.  There’s a lot more to it than that.
And if we ask:  “What are the elite trainers doing when they train?”  I hate to say, it still may not help us.  Olag, Bessie, Flo, and Serena have years and years of experience getting ridiculously good at their methods, whatever they may be.  Olag has spent literally thousands of hours practicing the Magic Bulgarian DPM—he’s a 10 at it.  Bessie and Flo and Serena have also paid serious dues in terms of practice hours and hard work to get their 10’s in RUN!, HEEL! And PARTNERS!  Buying their DVDs and adopting their “methods” might get us on a path to taking our 2’s or 5’s or 6’s up a few notches, but there’s an excellent chance that what’s really going to count in that improvement is simply the practice, dues and hard work part of the equation.   Being a 2 or 3 on the Magic Bulgarian PD Method-O-Meter is no more going to win us a World Title than what we’ve been doing already.  Winning World Titles comes from becoming a 10 on some Method-O-Meter, whatever the method may be.  It comes from achieving real excellence and mastery.
It doesn’t come from picking a shiny new hot method and continuing all our sloppy old training habits.   The pitfall is, we’re a 3 at Method A, we get frustrated that we’re not “winning” (whatever that is for us) so we look for a new method.  Method B, because it is new, reinvigorates our training.  We work harder for a while, get up to a 4 on the B-O-Meter, until we get frustrated, so we swap to Method C.  Since we’re actually not as good (technically) at C as we were at B, we’ll slip back to a 3—but it’s new so we work harder and maybe get to our 4 again… until we get bored and frustrated and start “method” shopping again.  If we’re not careful, we end up being wonderfully mediocre at a dozen methods and not truly good at any of them.    
In the end, there is no method born that can cover up poor fundamentals, not in any performance sport and certainly not in dog training.   Getting from a 3 or a 6 or an 8 to a 10 takes hours of practice, payment of dues and putting in the effort it takes to reach true excellence.  And, obviously, getting from a 3 to a 10 takes more hours, dues and work than getting from an 8 to a 10—we have much farther to go.  The old saw that the journey of a 1000 miles begins with a single step is true.  The adjunct to the saw ought to be that we can’t walk that thousand miles if we keep hiking off in all directions looking for shortcuts.
Paying patient attention to perfecting our fundamentals, striving for quality in technique and execution, taking care with the details, practicing and working hard are all keys to achieving excellence in performance.  Unfortunately, if you’re like me, words like patience, fundamentals, technique, details, practice and hard work aren’t always as alluring as guaranteed, immediate results, and so easy a child could do it.  I would prefer my 5-star gourmet dinner to come in a can I can heat on the stove, you bet I would.   Reality is so darned annoying at times.
But Reality is Our Friend—and can be our dogs’ Very Best Friend--if we embrace it.  Olag, Bessie, Flo, and Serena train their competition dogs every day, three times a day, in rigorously planned sessions.  Olag and Bessie, bless them, both use a motivational technique to improve drive in their dogs that involves hideous amounts of dashing--suddenly bursting into excited sprints and then whirling their (Malinois and Border collie, respectively) around at the end of a tug toy.  Reality:  I am old enough to be Olag’s mother and my dog outweighs Bessie’s by thirty pounds:  I can dash and tug only so much.  Lots of the exercises Flo uses are very effective and work like a charm; others, though, require patience and attention to detail that bore me silly, never mind my dog.  Serena’s Freestyle exercises are amazing and great fun, but the one where her Papillion jumps up and rebounds off her thigh doesn’t look like a good idea with my linebacker of a dog.
So in the end, unless I find a training guru who is very much like me (only better) and who has a dog very much like mine (only better), I’m going to have to pick-and-choose from all the wonderful methods, exercises and techniques spread out before me.  If I can only train once a day, find dashing problematic and can’t get Tinker interested in tennis balls, I’m going to have to adapt the Magic Bulgarian Police Dog Method or whatever to what Tinker and I can actually do without crashing into walls or wrenching my back.  And it just may be that the pieces of Olag’s program that I select as doable aren’t the pieces that led to his World Championship success.  It even may be that what led to Olag’s success has less to do with Olag—and his Method—than it appears.
It may be that Olag--in addition to his years of experience, thrice daily training sessions, ability to dash, excellent timing, true passion and dedication, a work ethic that won’t quit,  athletic body of an Olympic sprinter and opportunity to devote himself full-time to nothing but training, training and more training—has something else that you and I probably don’t have.
Olag has a purpose-bred dog from champion lines that was specifically bred for his sport.  So does Bessie.  Both of their sports require the highest levels of canine drive and athleticism, among other things.  Flo’s sport is less exacting athletically but requires precision, biddability and trainability; likely she, too, will have a breeding of choice.  Only Serena—in Freestyle, a relatively new sport where the competition isn’t yet as cut-throat and value is placed on artistry, inventiveness and creativity—is likely to be less fussy, since in theory she can take what a dog has and make it beautiful in its own right.  That’s one of the charms of Freestyle.  Though even for her, a three-legged Basset Hound or a dog with bad hips is probably out.
That having the right dog matters, and matters hugely, is obvious but somehow frequently over-looked in the unending quest for the Magic Performance Method.  Starting a new puppy and training it up to world-class level is an enormous investment of time and energy; top competitors aren’t going to gamble that investment on dogs of unknown quality regardless of their method.   People who compete at top levels or who need dogs for particular important jobs (leading the blind, search and rescue, police dog work) don’t just go out and snag any ole litter of random puppies in a box in front of a store.  They select very thoughtfully and carefully (and often obsessively) from lines of top breeders or they breed their own specialty lines to get, as much as they can control for it, exactly the physical and behavioral traits their sports require:  sound conformation, size, speed, quickness, courage, biddability, trainability, intelligence, nose and drive drive drive.
Because they know--the difference the right dog makes is simple.
It’s the difference between Ms. Streep taking me, with my measly starting 2 on the Act-O-Meter, and turning me into the next Oscar winner—versus taking an ambitious and extremely talented young actor who comes to her with an already established 7.   Or between poor Mr. Woods attempting to do something with my .5 pathetic golf swing vs. the game of a hot college golfer who already is a 6 or 7 or 8.  Give a seriously talented coach a seriously talented performer and amazing things can happen.  Give them me and the gap between 2 and 10 or .5 and 10 may be too wide for any method, however brilliant, to overcome.
We never like to hear this, in any form.  Our culture is steeped in a mythos of frogs turning into princes, Rocky winning the boxing match, the unlikely David slaying Goliath.  We love our underdog stories—the firm belief that anything is possible if we work hard enough, have enough faith and wish upon the right stars.  And I’d be the last person to deny it, because I love those stories too.  Of course miracles happen.  Sometimes. 
But the math is a little scary.  According to one good source that crunches a bunch of statistics, only 1 in 16,000 high school athletes go on to play professionally.*  At the end of the day, there are only so many teams in so many leagues with so many positions to fill:  not thousands.  Hundreds.  In dog agility, to pick one sport, there are only so many leagues holding so many trials—only one dog in each height of each class will finish first.  Getting titles is one thing:  in most doggy sports, the dog/handler team has to earn enough qualifying scores for that, and anyone (with the right dog) who is reasonably skilled, committed and puts in the effort has a shot at that.  Becoming a National or World Champion is another formula.  Elite world-class handler/dog teams, like in professional sports, are measured in a few hundreds, perhaps, not thousands.  Olag and Bessie are famous in their sports not because they are many but because they are so very few:  there’s only one spot for number one and it’s one.
What saddens me about this is how “method” gets unduly emphasized with little regard for the rest of the package.  This shows up in endless debates about “method” on Facebook or other social media groups, with the primary hot point being the use of punishment in dog training.  Inevitably, when the debate gets heated, somebody will trot out, “Nobody ever won the Muckety-Muck Dog World Title without using corrections.  Olag uses corrections.”
Olag, as we’ve already seen, does a heck of a lot more than that.  The proof is that most of the folks he beat in winning the title (and there are far more that lost than won) also use corrections and they didn’t win.  Winning a sporting event, especially at elite levels, is simply never a one-trick pony with everything riding on “method.”  Winning an elite event is always a Perfect Storm.  A talented handler has a talented dog, uses a solid, scientifically sound training system that fits the dog/handler team, prepares endlessly, practices their hearts out, gets to the trial and puts it all together.  They have a great day.  The handler avoids making any dire mistakes; the dog doesn’t make any dire mistakes.  They don’t get sick or injured at exactly the wrong time; another elite contender does twist an ankle just before the match.  It doesn’t rain—or it does and Olag’s dog loves working in the rain.  They’re showing under a judge that happens to like their style (yes, it matters) and the judge doesn’t mess up any calls (it can happen.)  All of Olag’s—or Bessie’s or Flo’s or Serena’s--hard work and experience, all of the dog’s talent and training, come together for a few magic moments and they give the world-class Winning Performance.
Perfect Storms are beautiful, swirls of all that talent, all that preparation, all that hard work, meeting just a bit of luck and the right circumstances and timing.  They can’t happen without the front end:  the talent, the preparation, the work—the 10 on the Train-O-Meter.  But there are marvelous Hall of Fame worthy golfers who didn’t win nearly as many golf tournaments as they should have simply because they had the misfortune to be playing their prime in the Age of Tiger.  There are beautiful actresses who gave heart-stopping performances who didn’t win their Oscar because they were nominated in a Meryl Streep year.  That little bit of luck, that dash of timing, a single tiny slip—it all matters.
And for every ambitious, talented child who rises through the ranks of the sand lot to the Big Show (the 1 out of 16,000) there are thousands and thousands of kids in Little Leagues and Pee Wee Leagues who leave the field in tears of shame and frustration.  The coach yelled at them; their parents yelled at them.  They dropped the ball or struck out.  They tried—they played their tiny hearts out—but they didn’t quite have the needed skill, the extra time to practice, a tip from a mentor that would have helped.  They weren’t as tall as the other kid, or as strong or coordinated.  They were on the team—and in sports there is always one on that end, too—that lost.  Many of these kids come away from the experience soured forever on sports, or with rotten memories of their parents, or with a terrible message installed in their heads at a fragile time:  I’m not good enough.  If the only thing that counts is Being Number One, only one in the field will count.  The rest are losers.
Most of us know better.  We know that sports for kids should be about things other than winning.  The competition should be a celebration of effort, of improvement, teamwork, building character and learning to do our very best and be gracious regardless of the result.  We—most of us—take a very dim view of tyrannical “stage parents” who bully and punish their tiny tots through all manner of performance weirdness—fashion shows and beauty pageants for 6 year olds, all the junior sports, school musicals and talent shows.   We—most of us—frown on parents and coaches who get so wrapped up in “winning” that they project their own frustrated egos and power trips into a game that should be fun and make the kids miserable for it.  And most of us would be seriously upset to find out that Coach took little Jimmy behind the barn and took a belt to his behind for missing a curve ball in the sixth inning.
I think we should consider this for our dogs, too.  For every one of Olag’s dogs that win a world title, there are thousands more competing in canine sports with no choice and no voice.  Those of us who own them—most of us without Olag’s talent, Olag’s dog, his experience or ridiculous work ethic—are amateurs in minor leagues.  And a 5 on the Train-O-Meter using Olag’s Magic Method is likely no more winning than a 5 using any other method, because 5’s are 5’s, not tens.  Merely adding permission to punish because “Olag does it and he wins world titles” isn’t going to boost our sand lot skills to Major Leagues. 
It is likely to send a whole lot of dog kids home in tears.
For those of us who enjoy performing in local theater or recreational sports, looking up to heroes like Meryl or Tiger or Olag doesn’t mean that we have to play the same game with the same values.  We don’t.  We’re not in it for Oscars or Majors or World Titles.  We’re in it for something else, something I find very beautiful.
The word amateur comes from the Latin amator—a lover.   We do it because we love it.  We participate in doggy sports because we love our dogs and want to do something together with them.  We know—most of us—that dog training and competition should be a celebration of effort, of improvement, teamwork, building character and learning to do our very best and be gracious regardless of the result.  We should also know and be proud and confident in this:  winning is only one measure of success. 
Another is Joy. 
Sure, I’d love to win a title or competition with Tinker.  I just have additional criteria for what counts as winning.  Because I am an amateur, because a World Title isn’t on the table, because I still have about 899 miles on the road of a 1000 miles to reach expertise in my method of choice.  I made a deal with my dog:  not at your expense.  Never at your expense.   If I can’t get a performance from Tinker that’s joyful, it doesn’t meet my criteria.  Because for me, joy is a measure of consent.  
So I’m not Olag, nor Bessie or Flo or Serena.  Maybe I’m not as strong, or fast, or patient, or graceful.  Maybe I’m not as experienced, organized or precise.  Maybe I will be one day--striving for excellence is part of the fun for me.  Until then, though, to copy their “methods” without copying the things that make their “methods” work is to stick a Rolls Royce hood ornament on my aging van and hope it’ll fix the engine.   It’s orange juice, blue feathers and unwashed socks:  magical thinking.
And it’s wrong.  Not because they are wrong—they aren’t the least bit wrong for them.  It’s wrong for me because their methods don’t always include my criteria:  that victory for us—for me and Tinker as a team--isn’t about putting winning first.  It’s about putting joyful, willing performance first.  It’s about a kid who leaves the sand lot beaming because she caught one ball, even if she muffed two and struck out twice.  It’s about the twinkle in the eye that says, this is fun, let’s play again.  It’s about, if I can’t train this with joy, I need to get better as a trainer.
It’s okay to put joy first.  It’s okay to play for love.   It’s okay to admit we will never win an elite world title with our dogs using our “methods.”  Neither will hundreds of people using Olag’s.  Methods are only direction; excellence is a 1000 miles of steps with no short cuts.  It’s not a trip everyone cares to make, and that’s okay, too.  If our goal is a part in the local theater’s production of Annie, a few strokes off our golf score or a better behaved pet dog around the house, Meryl, Tiger and Olag may be the very best at going 1000 miles but plenty of talented, experienced folks can get us the 89 miles we really need for success.  That doesn’t make us losers, less than the elite or less serious about achieving real excellence in those 89 miles.
It makes us lovers on a field of play that is every bit as valid as World Championships, only smaller and defined by victories more personal.
Of course, we can all drink more orange juice, borrow a blue feather from a movie set and get a super cool Tiger Woods golf shirt… who knows how far we might go?
(*From High School to Pro – How Many Will Go? Copyright 2006, Georgia Career Information Center, Georgia State University and its licensors.)

Note:  For anyone who wants a marvelous look at how true mastery and excellence is achieved in sports and other endeavors, I recommend Malcolm Gladwell’s outstanding book The Outliers.

Two Things We Need to Know About Our Dog’s Performance (and Ours), Part I

Posted on November 2, 2014 at 11:09 AM Comments comments (199)
I admit it: I am a Behavior Geek.  My idea of a wildly exciting night is curling up with my cats, my dog, a glass of warm milk and a DVD of the latest dog training seminar from some brilliant expert in the field.  These wonderful seminars and amazing experts keep me fresh, learning, in touch with all the cutting edge stuff.  They also make me think.  About dogs, dog training and us.  Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about performance.
My handy (and rather old) New World Dictionary of the American Language, Second College Edition offers this definition:
per·formvt.1. To act on so as to accomplish or bring to completion; execute; do, as a task, process, etc. 2. To carry out; meet the requirements of; fulfill (a promise, command, etc.) 3. To give a performance of; render or enact (a piece of music, a dramatic role, etc.)
We ask dogs to perform all the time.  We ask them to perform behaviors like Sit, Down, Come and Stay.  Dogs in various canine sports are expected to give athletic or “artistic” performances that “meet the requirements” of the sport.  As pet owners and trainers, we also have to perform lots of behaviors related to teaching the dog to do the things we want or partnering them in their sport.   And in general, the better we are in the performance of our teaching tasks, the better the dog will perform in their learning tasks.  Like, duh.  We know this and have known this for a very long time.
So it’s always amazing to me to watch these amazing DVDs and realize how very much we—pet-owner and trainers—struggle with even the basics of good teaching and training.
In workshop formats, owner-handler-trainers can bring their dogs with them to practice the skills they learn under the eyes and guidance of a Renowned Expert.   The folks attending are mostly canine sports enthusiasts, serious training junkies, high-level amateur competitors or professional trainers like me.  They are passionate and committed.  They are often skilled and educated dog people.  Their dogs are also pretty amazing, as we’d expect from that level of handler-trainers:  they have lots of previous experience in training and performance, and the coping skills to manage the less-than-ideal workshop environments.  Of course, no one really expects the dogs to learn much in the challenging workshop setting—the demonstrations and exercises are mostly for the attendees to get hands-on practice.   These attendees have gathered around the Renowned Expert to soak up more knowledge and improve their training skills precisely because they are advanced handler-trainers—and highly motivated to become even more advanced. 
So here we are:  a group of experienced, dedicated and skilled handler-trainers, a group of experienced, well-trained dogs and our Renowned Expert.  “Sally” comes up to learn the new exercise with her utterly gorgeous (Golden, Malinois, Australian Shepherd, rescue dog) in front of the group with the Renowned Expert to guide her.  Sally is lovely, a wonderful handler and an extremely generous person to step up and allow all of us to learn from her.  What happens next is almost inevitable:  Sally freezes like a deer in the headlights and proceeds to do just about everything wrong.
She drops her treats.  She clutches the leash, tries to power steer her dog into position, either fails to reinforce her dog’s good behavior or starts delivering a steady stream of random-for-nothing treats in a desperate attempt to hold her dog’s attention.  She can’t follow the simplest verbal instructions from our Renowned Expert, “Keep your hand out of your bait bag until after the click,” “Turn a little more to the right,”  “Loosen up the leash,” “Mark that!  Reward that!”  Sally nods her head and her hand goes into the bait bag, she never moves her feet, the leash remains in a death grip and the treats never make it to the dog.  The Renowned Expert—and bless her heart, she’s a renowned expert for a reason—gently and patiently tries to coach Sally through the moves, but it’s fairly hopeless.  Sally’s mind and spirit are willing but the body isn’t cooperating: the required motor muscle movements just aren’t there.  She can’t perform
The performance challenges Sally faces are perfectly hideous, of course.  She’s getting on a stage in front of a group—a perfect recipe for brain-lock right there.  Worse, there is a sizable professional camera rig aimed right at her—she’s being filmed.  Because she’s a wonderful dog handler-trainer, she’s keenly aware that 1) the environment isn’t ideal for her dog and she’s anxious about his response and 2) she’s deeply, stupidly in love with her dog (if she’s like me) and wants desperately for everyone to see how amazing he really is.  She is putting more pressure on herself to do well, to showcase the amazing animal she’s worked with so very much and so very hard.  Finally, she’s most likely at the Renowned Expert’s seminar in the first place because the Renowned Expert is someone she admires, and she wouldn’t be human if, on some level, she didn’t crave approval or have a desire to impress.   Add to all this the purely physical challenges of having to multitask in a new environment—handle the dog, execute her training moves, keep the right position for the camera, pay a fraction of attention to another attendee’s dog that’s sitting in the front row making stink eye at her dog and listen to the Renowned Expert at the same time.  In front of a group of her peers.  With the camera rolling. 
In a nutshell:  Sally is stressed.  Stressed with a capital “S.”  And one of the things that happens when we human beings are stressed is—we automatically revert to our most familiar, most practiced and most tried-and-true motor muscle patterns.   No creature in their right mind would “decide” that a highly stressful situation is the perfect time and place to invent or try out a brand-new behavior we’ve never done before.  When the heat is on, reach for the fire extinguisher you know will work, not a fancy new gizmo you’ve never tested before.
So there’s our Renowned Expert trying to coach Sally through a brand-new training protocol; there’s highly stressed Sally clutching desperately to the comfort-food motor patterns she’s always done successfully—or successfully enough—before.   What would help Sally the most would be to be able to “surrender” to and follow the Expert’s verbal directions exactly—to take those verbal instructions and instantly translate them into meaningful physical actions.  But that, it turns out, is a skill-set of its own. 
Simply being able to take the verbal instructions and translate them into meaningful physical actions is a learned behavior.  And it isn’t by any means universally learned:  it takes some specialty training.   The military is famous for it: the whole point of Boot Camp is to take a bunch of young rowdies and teach them to automatically, reflexively obey orders without hesitation or thought while seriously scary and dangerous things are going Boom! all around them.  (Which may explain the expectations in certain old schools of dog training—the military handlers all learned the drill of unquestioning obedience to verbal commands no matter what before they ever applied the same thinking to their dogs—but that’s another post, perhaps.)
Sally, alas, was not a Marine before she got hooked on dog training, but there’s still hope.  There are a couple of civilian contexts where that kind of skill-set is commonly acquired.  In--you guessed it!—arenas of performance like athletics and the performing arts.   Athletes learn during endless practice to translate a coach’s verbal instructions into concrete changes in how they move their bodies.  Actors, singers and dancers learn how to adjust their physical movements to meet the director’s requirements, to execute a step correctly, hit a note or deliver a line.  In many of these arenas, the performers learn to do it together as a team or a troupe, to develop a seamless give-and-take of cues, to multitask on their feet by maintaining their own individual performance criteria while at the same time adjusting for the movements of the people around them.  Getting it to all come together is a careful, often structured process of:  each individual learns each fundamental move or skill separately, then learns how to put the fundamentals together into an action or sequence, then starts combining them into more complex behaviors, then adds in the rest of the company a bit at a time.  After many many hours of practice, practice, practice, rehearse, rehearse, rehearse the behaviors become ingrained in the motor memory.  Team-mates and cast members can communicate massive amounts of information with a flick of an eye.  The coach on the sidelines can change the entire flow of the game with a quickly shouted, “Thirty-two right!”  Only then—finally—do we have a fair shot at getting a properly executed football game, Swan Lake or Hamlet.
We still may not get it, though.  It’s one thing to be able to execute all the right moves in the familiar warm-and-fuzzy setting of practice or rehearsal; doing it in the Super Bowl or on Broadway is another story.  Once again, we’re adding stress to the mix—an ingredient that seriously messes with our minds and our ability to perform.  We will likely never know how many truly astounding athletes or artists with world-class talent never had careers because of performance anxieties and stage fright, but there have been a lot.  Many very fine athletes and artists struggle their entire careers with performance demons—some of them are driven clean off the stage.  They have the talent, the drive, the work-ethic, the skills—everything.  But they just can’t take the stress.
Of course, not everyone responds to stress the same way—and not everyone finds the same things stressful.  Some performers feel so entirely at home on the field, court or stage that it simply doesn’t occur in their world as stressful.  Others experience stress as a magic juice that amps them up and puts them in a state of heightened performance.  Still others feel sick-to-their-stomach horrible while waiting in the wings, but as soon as they step out and the curtain goes up, they’re able to channel those pre-performance jitters into more positive energy.  However they do it, people who are highly successful performers do it.  They do it consistently.  They find ways to cope with stress, or to exploit stress to their performance advantage.  If they don’t—if they “choke” under pressure or fall apart when in the spotlight—they tend not to last as performers very long.
Which brings me back to “Sally,” the workshop and the Renowned Expert.  Sally—and most workshop attendees struggle every bit as much as Sally—is a lovely dog trainer-handler who, depending on her unique personally history, may or may not have any background in sports or the performing arts.   Being able to follow instructions while in the midst of a highly stressful situation—to take the verbal instructions and translate them into meaningful physical actions—may not be a skill she has worked on.  Being on a stage in front of a group may be a novel experience for her.  She’s probably rehearsed her dog’s Front & Finish hundreds of times, but keeping herself correctly oriented for a camera not at all.   And the workshop setting is nothing like the warm-and-fuzzy familiarity of the classes and practices at her training club, or even the familiar stress of a dog sports competition.  For one thing, because she is a good handler, Sally knows better than to toss brand-new moves at her dog in a competition run—they’re thoroughly rehearsed before she tries the tune out on Broadway.  Yet there she is, trying to learn a brand-new move herself in a super-charged goldfish bowl with everyone watching her. 
What becomes obvious in watching video of “Sally” and everyone like Sally (that would be most human beings) is—our big fancy cognitive brains don’t come to our rescue when we’re stressed.  Our big fancy cognitive brains may understand “Switch the leash to your right hand and feed in position with your left,” but it doesn’t seem to help.  The leash stays in a death grip in the left hand and the treats go wherever.  It’s so very common, there ought to be a Shakespearean quote about it somewhere:
Alas, to every trainer’s day shall fall
That stress makes goofballs of us all…
You know where I’m going with this next, of course.  I’ve been talking about us—Us!—with our big fancy cognitive brains, our exceptional capacity for learning via abstract verbal language, our amazing ability to visualize our desired future outcomes and prepare—at least mentally—for the required performance in advance.   Us!—and our own performances falling apart.
Our poor dogs.  Bless their hearts, they don’t have our big fancy cognitive brains.  They don’t have our capacity for learning via abstract verbal language.  They can’t look out on an agility course, read the numbers on the cones, develop a mental picture in advance and visualize the run they’re supposed to make.  They can only look to us, here and now, for the cues and signals we give them:  this is what I want you to do.  We expect them to unquestioningly, unthinkingly obey our cues—to take our verbal instructions and translate them into meaningful physical actions—immediately,all the time, every time.  But we can’t do that ourselves most of the time.  Dang.

So many things we should think about, and be more thoughtful about in our training...
If our cues are wonky—if we’re unclear, inconsistent, late, sloppy, distracted, not paying attention or just plain not giving our dogs enough useful information—well, the Team can’t perform “Thirty-two right!” if they don’t get the message clearly and in time to respond.
If our dogs are stressed out—and oh boy, are they stressed out sometimes—they may “hear” us but they’re going to do what we do:  they’re going to revert under pressure to their most familiar, most practiced and most tried-and-true motor muscle patterns.    Stress—whether because something is scary or exciting or just unfamiliar—does the same thing to dogs as it does to us:  makes it difficult or impossible for them to follow even simple instructions.   Not because they don’t “know” how to Sit, but because the part of the brain that knows it is overwhelmed by signals from another, more emotional part of the brain that hasn’t got a clue.  Like Sally “knows” perfectly well what, “Keep your hand out of your bait bag…” means.  She can’t do it, though, not when she’s stressed, and neither can her dog. 
Our dogs can’t perform on “Broadway” if they haven’t been prepared for it.  We need to remember that exposure isn’t remotely the same as rehearsal and practice:  simply having 100 visitors come over to the house or walking by 100 dogs on leash isn’t going to teach the dog the performance we want.  Rehearsal and practice mean the dog is carefully coached to Sit for each of those 100 guests, or guided to keep a nice, loose-leash heel position while paying attention to us as the other dogs go by.  And as we place better, faster, harder and more complicated performance demands on our dogs, we need remember to include a plan to reduce the (often inevitable) Stress and increase the (often desperately needed) Cope.
Our dogs can’t perform behaviors they don’t know or haven’t learned.  Imagine yourself at a party with someone shoving you toward the karaoke machine and pressuring you to have a go at Over the Rainbow.  Of course you “know” Over the Rainbow—you’ve seen the movie often enough, right?  You might, if you’re a ham or an exceptionally good sport and the scenario is only mildly to moderately stressful to you, have a shot at a successful performance.  Provided, of course, that you do know Over the Rainbow.  And how to sing, or close enough.  It can be done.
If, on the other hand, I ask you to have a go at one of my favorite songs, the love duet between the Vixen and the Fox in Leos Janacek’s darling opera The Cunning Little Vixen—in the original Czechoslovakian, please—you will very likely hit a wall.  It’s very possible that you won’t know the tune I’m asking for:  you’ve never heard it before in your life and you won’t have a clue what I want.  If you have heard it once or twice, unless you’re a trained opera singer, you know Czechoslovakian and you have studied the score—you won’t be able to give a successful performance, you simply won’t.   You won’t know how.
Sometimes we ask our dogs to sing songs they really do know.  But we ask at parties, before we’ve taught the dog to 1) enjoy and be relaxed at parties--without performance demands, 2) enjoy and be relaxed performing easy, familiar songs at parties and/or 3) cope with performance stress or anxiety at parties.   We forget that dogs are like us:  just because they can sing it in the shower doesn’t mean they’re ready for Broadway.
Sometimes, though, we ask our dogs to sing complicated songs in a foreign language that they’re not remotely ready to perform:  they don’t know what we’re asking, or how to do what we’re asking.  Here, I think we forget that dogs aren’t like us:  we think something is as easy as Over the Rainbow when it’s really an unfamiliar Czechoslovakian aria to our dogs.
Too much Stress and not enough Cope is a wrecking ball to good learning and good performance, for us and for dogs.   And I think we underestimate how stressed our dogs are, how much we’re asking them to do in situations that they find difficult, confusing or even frightening.  Like us, dogs are individuals with unique combinations of personality, learning and performance ability:  we all have our Stress-O-Meters dialed to different set-points.   Just because one dog can do it, or ten dogs can do it, or our last dog of the same breed could do it, doesn’t mean the individual dog in front of us right now can do it.   Some people love singing karaoke at parties.  Some would rather have a root canal.  One dog’s party is another dog’s stress, just like us.  
So the next time your dog’s performance falls apart—whether it’s a competition run or sitting politely for guests at home or walking by another dog on the street--remember The Sally Rule of Performance:   
If it can make the handler/trainer fall apart, it can make the dog fall apart.
(Part Two—Soon to come!)

TINKER DAY! A Celebration

Posted on October 24, 2014 at 12:38 AM Comments comments (102)
It’s dark in the back yard, nearing 10 o’clock, and all hell has broken loose.  During the day, the house next to mine is used as a preschool and filled with the sounds of children playing.  At night, it is vacant, an empty highway to the wetlands beyond the alley.  Now, from behind the board fence comes a horrible hissing growl that sounds like it belongs to a 10-ft. Nile crocodile.   Tinker finds the knot hole in the fence and inhales the smell, then erupts into a frenzy of her own. 

Not a crocodile; it’s one or more of the local family of raccoons. I’m ready with treats—chicken, cheese, steak—but there’s little point to them yet.  As Tinker throws herself at the fence and starts tearing at a board with her teeth, I take her by the collar and pull her away as gently as I can.  Amazingly, she accepts this, letting me lead her a few feet away. 

“Tinker,” I say softly, “Sit.” 

She is trembling, her nostrils flaring.  She sits.  “Tinker,” I say, “Watch me.” 

She lifts her head to make eye contact, intense, reluctant.  But she does it, locks on questioningly.  Slowly, I let go of her collar.  “Tinker, wait.”   

A slight sound escapes her, a doggy %$#&^!   But she holds the Sit, staring into my eyes.  “Tinker,” I dare to say, “Down.” 

The cartoon bubble would probably read, “Are you *&#@# kidding me?”  But she sinks down.  Holds it.  Waits.  “Tinker,” I say, “Good girl.  Okay, git it!”  

She explodes toward the fence to claim her reward.  You’d think the raccoons would have had the wit to leave, but they start cussing back from the safety of the other yard.  I collect Tinker again, another round.  And another.  The raccoons finally drift into the night, the alley beyond, leaving behind odor and hope.   Tinker inhales the scent through her beloved knot hole, winding down a notch.   “Tinker,” I can risk it now, I have a chance now, “Here!” 

She leaves the fence, dashes over for a bit of cheese.  Sit.  Watch.  Git it!  Her charge to the fence is delighted, work become a game.  Here!  Git it!  After a few rounds, Here—and chicken, cheese, steak—becomes more interesting than the fading smell of the raccoons.    No critters were harmed in the making of the training session.  Tinker looks at me, her eyes shining.   She can’t come away from the raccoons once she’s on them, not yet.  The Sit-Watch-Wait-Down from ten feet away is her gift to me, a glory of growing self-control from a dog born to hunt.  

Three years ago on October 25, after months of struggling with the loss of my beloved Corgi Fox, a couple of 7-8 week old puppies were brought into the shelter by a woman who had found them abandoned at a local rest stop.  One was a nifty looking black-and-white girl with shorter legs that I guessed was a ranch dog bundle of Border collie and maybe Jack Russell.  Her sister was an odd looking white and speckled gray-faced cutie, leggier and stockier than her sis, that I speculated was the same ranch dog bundle with some Cattle Dog aka Blue Heeler thrown in.   Hmm.  Hmmm.  

Of course, being a professional dog trainer gives one all kinds of training and sporting ambitions, not to mention an ardent desire to have a dog that makes us look good in public.  The usual solution—which was my intended solution—is some cool version of Flash the Border collie.   Flash, super biddable, versatile and ready to work for a whisper and a whistle—I was going to get young Flash, train him or her up to be an agility star, a Freestyle dancing partner, a walking advertisement for my dog trainerly skill.  Flash and I were going to go everywhere together with nary a leash in sight.  Flash was going to be my constant companion, a cheerful confident brainiac of a dog adored by all, with not a behavior glitch to his or her name.  Yup.  

But Flash hadn’t shown up at the shelter yet.  These two little girls… hmmm.  Border/Jack/Heeler ranch mutt… hmmm.  That’s not a bad mix, enough herding dog to have Flash potential.   The average Cattle dog is an edgier, tougher nut than the average Border collie, but they’re smart, fast, versatile and loyal dogs and I like the breed on the whole very much.   Although Flash in theory is ideal, really, what hooks me more than anything is—I like smart dogs.  Clever, even naughty dogs that make me laugh at their antics.   The only issue I seriously didn’t want to mess with was predatory drive, because I have cats, want a mostly off-leash dog and predatory/hunt drive is so ferociously hard to modify.   That dash of what looked like Jack Russell gave me some pause.  But Cattle dog/herding ranch dog mix?  Oh, yeah. 

I ended up fostering both pups for a bit, until one of them found a home.  But I knew where my heart was falling.  That white-and-speckled gray-face girl.   Tinker, I named her, from Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.  I couldn’t wait for her sis to—as it turned out—go to Oregon Humane’s adoption program in Portland, so that Tinker and I could begin bonding as a pair.  

They say “love is blind,” but I don’t think so.  It’s only blind if we’re in love with our expectations at the expense of reality.   By the time Tinker was 5 months old, I was stupid in love but I also knew something wasn’t going in the hoped-for Flash Direction.   The tells were alarming to a pet owner but pretty damned funny to a behavior geek:  they’re often called “Fixed Action Patterns” or “FAPs” for short.   These are hard-wired behaviors that spring, like Athena from the head of Zeus, fully formed and loaded with no training or learning at all.  They’re—experts get fussy about what words we should use, but you’ll get the idea—innate, instinctive, often selective bred for and can be powerful as sin.    

I got the I-must-bury-the-bone business; lots of dogs do that, no problem.  But the climbing?   I never taught Tinker to get up in chairs, scamper up the steps of the cat tree or pose on the dining room table.  She wanted up, any up she could get, and she was damned good at it.   Then, there was the very strong and un-Flashlike activity cycle:  no constant, ready-for-action motion for Tinker.  Early mornings were moderately interesting, daytime for sleeping, but the real Tinker came out at night.  Her keenness was palpable:  time to work.  Oh, boy.   And her nose… oh my stars, the nose on this dog.   Combined, clever behavior detective that I am, it came out:  let’s go out at night, track with our noses and climb trees.  That’s not Flash.   That’s not herding dog.  That’s… well, I said rude words as a dread suspicion started to rise:  had I, somehow, someway, gotten myself into a Coonhound mix?  

Not exactly, it turned out.  With the encouragement of friends at the shelter, I sent off for Tinker’s DNA test.  I was still expecting some ranch herding mix like Border, Jack and Heeler, but I was also anticipating the Wild Card:  Treeing Walker Coonhound, maybe Pointer?  When the results came back two weeks later, I have to say, I was floored.   On one side, not unexpectedly—no detectable breeds at all.  My guess is, since Tinker looked so different from her sister, that that would be Mum the ranch mutt, a little of everything tossed in the canine melting pot generations ago.  So, 50% of mutt.  It was the other side—the what I’m assuming is the Stud side.   Not a mutt, oh no.  Papa was a 100% pure-bred Catahoula Leopard Dog.  

Catahoula Leopard Dog?   My Tinker?  Not a delightful stew of known ingredients with that pesky Wild Card for spice?   A combination of All (Dad) and Nothing (Mum.)   50% Catahoula, the only breed detected in the mix.   Of course in hindsight, it made total sense.  

All or Nothing, that’s my girl.   

I can only guess, but based on the daughter’s behavior, somewhere out there is or was a really good working Catahoula stud.  With the nose, the hunt drive, the eagerness to climb trees, tackle bears, blow through fences and catch feral pigs.  To go out late at night with headlamps and nerve and traipse through the piney woods in quest of raccoons.   Judging by his daughter, that Catahoula boy is or can also be a total doll, a mellow lazy lay-about.  Until the sun goes down and a switch gets thrown in some lower-down primal section of brain.  Then, I’ll bet he is or was amazing at his job.  His daughter is amazing, and that had to come from somewhere.  

There are millions of lovely, wonderful pet dogs in this country that haven’t been selectively bred—or at least not in a very long time—for any particular working purpose.   They may or may not come with a few glimmering echoes of their ancestral jobs as herders, hunters, varmint killers, fighters or pullers.  Many of them retain the flavor, sometimes a strong flavor, of what we usually refer to as breedtendencies; many others, though, have as their strongest flavor the robust starch of just good plain old-fashioned Dog.   They chew a little, pee a little, chase a ball a little, drive us crazy a little and then turn two or three years old and arrive at a routine of mutually agreeable activities that work on both leash ends.  They might enjoy this-or-that, but they can take it in small doses or leave it for a less problematic substitute without major sacrifice to their souls.    

That was my Fox:  a lovely gentleman who liked to chase and herd, but who really had no strong commitment to what he chased or herded:  squeaky toys and flocks of puppies met his needs just fine.  He passed his herding instinct test on sheep, but he was just as happy with a soccer ball.   His FAPs were real and with enough reinforcement, I suppose could have gathered enough steam to propel him on those tracks.   It was simpler, though, to nudge his tendencies into other, more convenient tracks:  squeaky hedgehogs, agility and tug toys in the living room.  Many dogs with FAPs or breed tendencies are like that—the behaviors are mild enough or wrapped in a biddable package so that we tend to regard them as part of the charm of having that breed.   They’re endearing little foibles that make our breed special and recognizable, or even give them an advantage in the dog sports of our choice: obedience, agility, recreational herding or carting or scent work.  They’re tendencies.  They’re not purpose-bred freight trains running on rails and crushing everything in their path.  

Now, there’s a simple common-sense rule in dog training: weak behaviors are easier to modify than powerful ones.  Of course they are:  it’s usually as straight-forward as picking a more preferred behavior and building it into a mighty oak via rewards.  The old unwanted behavior is avoided or managed, isolated from all hints of reinforcement nutrition until it withers in barren soil.  The desired new behavior, lavished with care, blossoms and steals all sunlight from the old.  Since weak behaviors are weak, they haven’t yet become deeply rooted by a strong reward history and it’s not hard to find bigger, bolder rewards to grow something else more appealing.  It’s why most behaviors in most puppies are easy to increase or decrease: puppy simply hasn’t been alive long enough for her little seedling behaviors to have become mighty oaks.  Nourish the good behaviors and starve out the weedy ones; done correctly, puppy’s behavior garden will flourish in all the right ways.  

Not always, though.  Some pups come not just with certain seedlings, but with a certain kind of soil.  The whole point of selective breeding is to pick the animals that express the desired behaviors most strongly.  And the easiest way biologically to get strong, reliable behaviors is to select animals that have them hard-wired into the animal’s very own internal seeking system:  they do them not because they are externally rewarded but because they are internally rewarding.   And for real world working dogs in real world jobs, the internal rewarding has to be powerful enough to overcome all other desires—often even all other fears.   A good cow dog is smart enough to avoid most kicks but also gutty enough to carry on in the face of very real risks.   If the fear of getting kicked stopped them, they couldn’t do their jobs.  Instead, nipping at the heels of something that outweighs them by a literal ton feels good to their internal seeking systems, so good that they’ll take on bulls the size of minivans with fearless gusto.  

This kind of gutsy enthusiasm is a goes-without-saying in most predators that tackle large game:  zebras don’t lie down for lions or elk for wolves.  Prey animals fight for their lives with tooth and claw, hooves and horns, and if the lions and tigers and bears couldn’t take it, they’d starve.   In that, big-game predators act like extreme sports enthusiasts:  no pain, no gain adrenaline junkies.  The act of hunting floods them with all kinds of arousing chemicals that make it possible for them to override fear, or ignore in the heat of the moment the inevitable kicks, body slams and goring.  It amounts to an addiction, in this case an addiction essential to fitness and survival.  Which is why behaviors rooted in the soil of predation can be so very, very hard to change:  there are precious few, sometimes no, external rewards that trump the adrenaline junkie buzz of the Hunting Rush.

In herding dogs, the problem was solved, or mostly solved, at the selective breeding level by co-selecting for a second trait:  biddability.  Herders not only needed Flash to be an internally-rewarded fool for rounding up stock—they also needed him to stop on a dime when asked.   The dogs that herded like crazy but kept going until the sheep were exhausted or driven over a cliff didn’t make the cut; nor did the dogs that didn’t herd at all.  It took both traits to make for an outstanding stock dog:  herd and stop at my command.   That’s what makes Flash so very alluring to a trainer:  a powerfully installed work ethic combined with a powerfully installed pre-disposition to take direction.   My darling Corgi had both on a milder, less intense scale: he was always keen to work and always willing to listen.  

Which brings me back to Tinker, who is not and never will be Flash.  She is, in many ways, the anti-Flash.  Unlike a herding dog, Tinker’s Catahoula job description goes something like this:  1) Dog, go git me a critter.  When you find it, run it up a tree.  Then stay there and yell your fool head off till I come pull you off.  2) Dog, go find me a hog.  When you find it, grab aholt and don’t let go, never mind if it kicks or hollers or bites you, you keep a grip till I git there and pull you off.  3) Dog, go track me down a critter, and don’t let nothin’ stop you.  Not briars nor bobwire nor the Devil Himself.   You git that nose down and go, girl.    

So Tinker’s Rules for Success seem to be:
Work independently (amazing intelligence but taking direction not important)
Look everywhere and stick your nose into everything (insatiable curiosity)
Forget listening, the humans aren’t going to be there to tell you (words not important when hunting)
“Stop” is not in my vocabulary until a human has me physically by the collar; then I’m all done (insane arousal/immediate off-switch)
Never back down from a feisty animal (any sign of fight or aggression shall be met with a like response)
If something’s in the way, climb it, knock it down or go through it (stay on task and let the chips fall…)  

Now, at this point I could point out that Tinker isn’t always in Raccoon Mode and when she’s not on a Hunting Rush, she’s chock-full of all manner of virtues.  But I won’t say it.  It’s untrue in this sense:  it completely misses the point.  Tinker’s behaviors when she is in Raccoon Mode aren’t vices.  Some of them may be inconvenient to me (and the raccoons, though my local family seems to enjoy pouring their own fuel on the fire) but they aren’t a behavior problem.  They are an expression of who-knows how many years of selective breeding to be exactly what they are:  hard-wired into her internal seeking system, a boundless Rush that lights her up like nothing else on earth.   

There’s a Pop Culture myth when it comes to our dogs that we face a choice—some would say a constant battle—between Total Domination or Dangerous Anarchy.   Which is weird, because none of our other treasured long-term relationships are framed in those terms, not if they’re healthy and vibrant and joyful.   Truly healthy relationships seem to me to float in the middle, a nurturing and fluid exchange with neither Domination nor Anarchy in play.   So I need to be crystal clear: “surrendering to” or “embracing” Tinker’s inner hunter doesn’t mean throwing up my hands, tossing out our long leash and letting her run amok at her every whim.   It means finding a balance in our choices not between Domination and Anarchy, but between Safety and Joy.  

Like us, Tinker didn’t get to pick her parents or her genes: she got dealt the hand she was dealt.  Her FAP’s and hunting behaviors aren’t a choice she made, any more than she chose to be a dog.  Brain hard-wiring is brain hard-wiring, not a lack of will or willful disobedience.   Tinker came loaded for raccoon and bear: a less appealing load in our modern world, perhaps, but no less powerful than Flash’s herding drive.  It’s not her fault she was adopted by an owner who has no practical use for her very fine talents.  I like to believe, though, that it was her good fortune to land in the lap of a guardian who is coming, however slowly, to understand and appreciate them.  

Of course, it could be like that old movie canard—you know, the one about the coal miner dad who wants his son to be a boxer, but all the kid wants to do is dance or play the violin, except in our case, the kid wants to box and I want the ballet.   At least, I thought I wanted Flash, with his nifty weave poles and nimble-footed Freestyle moves.  Maybe an obedience title instead of teeth marks in the board fence, thanks to Ms. or Mr. Raccoon snarling on the other side.  A Really Reliable Recall would be nice, or an off-leash walk in the woods that didn’t run the real and embarrassing risk of a treed bear, Tinker circling at the top of her lungs and me in hysterics trying to pull her off.    

Instead, Tinker has graciously humored me about agility.  She can uncork a gorgeous run of power and speed that takes my breath away; or she can sit on the start line and contemplate her navel with Zen-like serenity and no interest at all in moving.  I suspect she thinks Freestyle is mighty weird, but she’ll amble through it willingly enough if I keep the music to her speed—the stately theme of Jurassic Park seems to suit her and she makes a pretty good dinosaur.   The trouble is, my T-Rex doesn’t want to be fed.   She wants to hunt.   

Is there a way to take the hunting dog out of her?  Maybe, but I won’t do it, certainly not by force.   I would no more demand that than I would ask Tiger Woods to abandon golf, Adele not to sing, or my amazingly artistic nieces to give up dance and poetry.   When Tinker is on her hunting game, her whole being moves to that music.   She is powerful, headstrong, glorious, a force of nature.  She’s beautiful and alive and fierce with joy.   To take that from her for my own convenience would be to fail both her and myself as a guardian and a trainer. 

Agility and Freestyle and Obedience are and always were my gigs, my goals, not hers.   We’ll still train for them.  I’ll continue to look for ways to channel some of that ferocious hunting drive into my preferred sports, to motivate her more effectively, to get that hunt drive under some modicum of stimulus control and build a Recall that’s bear-proof.   Sometimes chasing rainbows, we don’t reach the gold but we have a hell of a good time trying; maybe a lucky penny lands in our pocket along the way.   In the end, though, when all is said and done, Tinker isn’t here to feed my ego.   She doesn’t need titles.  She doesn’t need to be Flash.  For me, Tinker needs two things and two things only.  

First, Tinker needs to be safe, and the bears and raccoons and other critters around her need to be kept safe.   Second, Tinker needs to be happy.  And that means finding opportunities—safe, creative opportunities--for her to express her preferred behaviors often enough to keep her soul fires burning.   Including her hunting behaviors.  

There are plenty of folks and I’m sure plenty of trainers who would be full of suggestions and advice of what I can do to “fix” her, to train away or suppress her hunting behaviors, to get her to “listen” to me more or “obey” me better, to turn her into something closer to the Flash of my former dreams.   The underlying assumption being that super-biddable work-a-holic Flash would be a better dog, a better performer, a better walking advertisement, and the more Tinker could be like him, the more successful we would be.    

Except, I’m not in love with my dreams, my expectations.   I’m in love with a dog, a unique individual living being, and the goal isn’t for Tinker to become my fantasy Flash.  The goal is for Tinker to be Tinker—the best Tinker she can be.   And for me to become both a better trainer and a better person, the best way I can find.  Forcing her, making her be more like my expectations gets me more of me.  I already have plenty of me.  I want her to be more of her.  

What Tinker has taught me is that if I insist on getting what I expect, what I think I want, I will never have anything bigger than the box of my own making.   Safer, certainly, with none of the surprise and possible horror of the unforeseen.  But also none of the amazing unforeseen highs, the surprises that delight, the places I would never have thought to go to on my own.  Tinker pushes me outside my own box, my own notions of what a dog should be and could be.  Most of all, Tinker brings me joy because she is, wittily, independently, some would say stubbornly, so very Tinker.  Her own dog, her own soul, her own being, shared with me.  

She cannot read this; I can only hope she knows, on some doggy level, how much I love her, all of her.  Three years gone by on a wind, from that speckled, gray-faced puppy to my big brave strapping girl.   

Okay, Tinker!  Git it! (means I love you.)  Git it!  

On Leaders, Babies and Bathwater, Part Five

Posted on August 17, 2014 at 7:37 PM Comments comments (125)
Oh boy.  In the last part, I talked about the two flavors of Strategic Following:  Following because someone has greater expertise, and Following because someone has control of desired resources.   And I sort of left us in a pickle:  taking advantage of Juvenile Following can be time sensitive and often requires a relationship; getting mileage out of the first flavor of Strategic Following typically requires that the interests be mutual or compatible and that we actually have some expertise to offer.  In dog training, this can take some finesse that a lot of perfectly wonderful pet owners don’t have and aren’t interested in acquiring.
When folks say they want to or think they should Be the Alpha or the Pack Leader, what they seem to mean when I get down to it is something very simple:  they want their dogs to listen to them and do what they say.  Preferably all the time, every time, and especially in situations where the dog is excited, distracted or otherwise ill-behaved.   And many people seem to believe that dogs do this naturally, or should do this naturally—all that wanting to please us and so on .A dog that doesn’t naturally want to please us is somehow bad—a bad dog.  And it’s okay, maybe even right, to punish bad people and bad dogs.  Or “correct” them so that they’ll learn to be good.  All of this leads to what I’m calling Forced Following—which the more I think about it, the more inclined I am to consider an oxymoron if ever there was one.
There’s a quick distinction to make here, because it’s super helpful:  most dogs are inclined to be naturally social.  I myself was not inclined to be naturally social when I was young, but I seem to have acquired a taste for it in maturity:  I like people.  I like you.  I want you to like me.  I am delighted if I can brighten someone’s day, get a smile out of them, leave them feeling better than they did before.  I also prefer to avoid conflict when I can, to play, to laugh, to have good time in my encounters with other creatures. 
That does not, however, mean that I want or am willing to take out your trash, wax your car or lend you money.  Or do anything or everything you say.  Cheerful, friendly, inclined to avoid conflict and reasonably tolerant doesn’t equal obedient, “submissive” or any shape of doormat.  I mean you no harm.  If I can please you in some small or large way without sacrificing my own best interests or well-being, I probably will.  I will likely be true to the nice little social conventions: hold the door if someone is carrying groceries, give up my seat to an elder, say please and thank you.  I also have boundaries.  And limits. 
When it comes to dogs, I think we confuse this all the time:  we mistake their willingness to be friendly, to tolerate us, to play, to greet us effusively, to mean us no harm, for a burning desire to take out our trash and ignore squirrels at our bidding.  But sociable (seeks out and enjoys friendly contact) and biddable (easily accepting of another’s direction) are not the same traits.   Most biddable dogs are highly social, but plenty of highly social dogs aren’t particularly biddable.  I have one.  Heck, I am one.
The second layer of confusion in the Wants to Please premise is in some ways harder to detect, since it tends to swing in a more agreeable direction: mistaking our old friend compatibility for obedience or biddability.  I see this all the time—owners and dogs fitting each other to a tee.  They get along famously, the relationship works, they adore each other.  And it’s not because the dog is especially well-behaved by any objective measure of behavior—often, the dog “listens” not one bit, has no training to speak of and has plenty of behaviors that would drive another person mad.  But the owner thinks—and more importantly, feels—that the dog is perfect.  The best dog ever.
But well-matched isn’t the same as obedient, biddable or recognizing the owner as Pack Leader.  If we both want to the same things, what’s to bid, obey or lead?  When dog and owner share mutual interests, no one is conceding their will to another.   My darling Corgi Fox was a dreamboat around squirrels and always responded to my, “Fox, leave it.”  Of course he did—he didn’t want to chase them in the first place.  It made me look good but confusing it with obedience or biddability is falling for an illusion.  If I tell the dog to do what he wants or to not do what he doesn’t want to do anyway, I’ll get amazing “obedience”—as long as we don’t pay attention to the funny little man behind the curtain.  If we do, the Great and Powerful Obedience Oz isn’t quite what he seems.  There’s no place like Compatibility, truly.
When someone comes to me seeking help for a dog, it’s always for one of three reasons.  1) The dog is losing sociability in certain situations or with certain creatures—becoming fearful or aggressive, lunging at other dogs, trying to bite the mail carrier, cowering from men.  2) The dog and owner are having compatibility breakdowns, usually expressed as the dog being “too” something—too hyper, too noisy, too rough.  3) The owner wants the dog to learn how to perform a behavior the dog doesn’t know how to do—which might be anything from walking nicely on a leash to cute tricks to becoming competitive in agility.  
So if you ask me as an animal sheltering professional what works in pet dogs living with people, it’s 1) sociability (being friendly to people and other animals) 2) compatibility (having similar energy levels, mutual interests, shared pleasures) and lastly 3) performance (specific behaviors the owner likes, if any).  If a dog is friendly, affectionate and responsive, we’ll be far more tolerant of little bumps in compatibility.  If the dog is in the compatibility ball-park, there won’t be too much energy or too many annoying behaviors (present or absent) to sweat over, and the behaviors we do want or don’t want will be easy to train.  Performance is for many pet owners a take-it-or-leave-it affair:  given friendliness and compatibility, nice household manners, a useful Sit and a cute shake-a-paw have been the sum total of many a beloved pet’s training to no ill-effect at all. 
The point is, the whole notion of Leadership rarely even comes up until there’s an issue in one or all of the above.   With most pet owners, the problem is usually the appearance of aggression or fearfulness in older (post-adolescent) dogs and the various compatibility shipwrecks of adolescence, when they realize the dog has become “too” something for their lifestyle.  Only a small percentage of dog owners who use their dogs for work (hunting, herding, search and rescue, service, etc.) or sport (agility, obedience, show, etc.) consider “performance” itself to be a real problem or even that interesting.  Really, most of us regular pet owning janes and joes don’t rush out to seminars or break into a cold sweat if our dogs forget to step in the yellow part of the agility obstacle or sit with their little rumps cocked to one side. 
Which takes us to the probably oxymoronic notion of Forced Following:  making someone do what we want them to do, whether they want to or not.  Typically not, obviously—if we want to do something, we usually don’t have to be forced.  What I'm calling Forced Following here means using pain, fear or the threats of pain and fear to make an animal do something or stop doing something:  the dog must obey or else.  And here it gets kind of odd. 
Forced Following is promoted all the time under the Be the Pack Leader banner:  all manner of physical or emotional coercion employed in the name of “training,” from electric shock to collars designed to cause discomfort to screaming, hitting, kicking, poking, shaking, rolling, etc.  These tactics are often justified as being the only way to build sure-fire, guaranteed reliability and performance in working or competition dogs.  In fact, a lot of the Be the Alpha stuff seems to trickle down from certain professional dog trainers or high-end amateur competitors in dog sports—people who, by all rights, the regular pet owner has every reason to believe know what they’re talking about.  The dogs must do what we want, they say, or else—if we don’t enforce, something worse might happen.  We’ll lose our Leader status, the dog will no longer “respect” us, no longer perform for us, and we’ll be bad, over-indulgent pet parents failing to provide our (secretly) eager to please dogs with the Alpha figurehead they need and crave. 
These folks have titles, decades of experience, surely they must know what they’re talking about.  Except… a little critical thinking goes a long way here.
First, working and competition people don’t have our dogs.  They don’t have pet dogs.  Folks that seriously need dogs for serious jobs start with dogs that are purpose-bred for the destined task.  Guide Dogs for the Blind doesn’t visit my shelter and grab any old litter of whatever/ Labrador mixes to train up—they carefully breed their own lines.  The world’s greatest Agility or Schutzhund or Obedience competitors don’t select their next world champion prospect from a box in front of Wal-Mart.  They pick their pups from purpose-bred champion lines specifically for the traits they want:  biddability, toy drive, conformation, energy, ability to tolerate pressure, etc.  They start, in short, with dogs that are already highly compatible with the expected work or competition.  
Second, even with those purpose-bred dogs, even with World Class trainers—behavior is never 100%.  Performance is never 100%.  If it were, they would score perfectly every time they walked into a ring.  Every dog they put to the task would be brilliant every time.  Instead, even the best of the best lose more often than they win:  it wouldn’t be a competition if they didn’t.  Plenty of the dogs end up not thriving in the rarefied air and wash out, despite being careful bred or chosen.  And it’s not because the dogs and the trainers aren’t magnificent: it’s because what they’re being asked to do isn’t easy.  Every dog and every handler has skills they’re good at and skills where they could use more work; every dog and handler has strengths and weaknesses, limitations and bad hair days.  Everyone makes mistakes, in competition and in life.  Consider, say, college football coaches, many of whom could be poster men for Alphadom.   Being a fabulous Leader of the Pack isn’t enough if the opposing team has a better quarterback and an all-star offensive line. 
Behavioral expression—which is to say, performance—is always a stew of more than one ingredient:  how the dog feels, how motivated they and then that last pesky detail—how skilled.  One of my favorite analogies illustrates this:  if I go to take Tap Dancing lessons, it takes me no time at all to figure out who’s in charge of the class—the Instructor, duh.   He or she may be a larger than life personality, domineering, a wonderful Leader, etc.—and I’ll bet it won’t take me long at all to recognize the Instructor’s experience level, motivational style and various glowing virtues or flaws.  At the end of that 30 seconds, I will still have utterly no clue where to put my feet.  I may be bowing to the great and glorious guru of Tap, but I’ll still need to learn how to dance
In terms of skill in performance itself, Leadership turns out to be pretty irrelevant compared to, say, practice, repetition and experience. Where “Leadership” may count is getting through all that practice and repetition—the other two behavior ingredients: how the dog feels and how motivated they are.  It’s here that Forced Following is a curious can of worms. 
Of course, force can certainly work as a motivator.  Most of us will obey, or try to obey, if someone puts a gun to our heads and we have no other choice.  But this presumes that we already have the required performance skill:  if I really don’t know the code to the safe or how to speak Esperanto, screaming at me and waving the gun won’t help.  All too often, dogs end up being yelled at in a language they don’t understand for doing behaviors that are entirely natural to them and not doing behaviors that they haven’t been taught.   The equivalent of me telling you, @&^#$ &**#%! %^@! and expecting you to get it right—or else.  You and your dog may eventually figure it out—if only by doing nothing or avoiding me when I sound like that.  But there will be a toll.
When pet owners get seduced by the Dark Side of Forced Following, it’s almost always because they’re at the end of their tethers with behavior issues stemming from—you guessed it—breakdowns in sociability, compatibility and performance.  Desperate for relief, they hear some palatable version of the Be the Leader story and believe that they need to become more forceful, Alpha, leaderly, etc. in the Do What I Say half of the equation.  That if we stand taller, deliver our cues with greater conviction or thunder them more loudly, the dog will recognize our authority and get with our program.  Since many dogs are sensitive to our body language and tone, that can certainly, in certain situations, arrest their attention and get us some better behavior.
But for other dogs or dogs where the behavior stakes are higher—Tinker with a raccoon on the fence—the Do What I Say part isn’t likely to make much difference, and it’s not the part trainers themselves really rely on.  The part that counts is the second half of the equation, the timely and firm application of the Else in Or Else.  Simply, the dog is punished in some fashion.  That’s the part that does the job:  the yelling (causing fear), the choking (discomfort, fear or pain) or the electric shock (discomfort, fear or pain.)  And using punishment well turns out to be incredibly difficult—playing with discomfort, fear and pain in an animal’s brain without causing damage or setting off a cascade of icky side effects takes a very high level of skill.  The obvious problem is that these Elses aren’t friendly or likely to nourish friendliness, do nothing to foster mutual interests or compatibility, and if a dog doesn’t understand #$&^#! or know how to do #$&^#!, do #$&^#! or Else contributes little or nothing to his learning or performance.   We might get a few behaviors—or more likely the suppression of a few behaviors—here and there, but we might also make the dog worse in ways that matter more deeply.  The Do What I Say or Else of Forced Following is hard to use, likely to backfire and can utterly trash our relationships with our dogs if our timing, our choice of punishment or our technical skills are just a little bit off.   
Are there people who can probably pull it off?  Sure, just like there are people who can carve elaborate ice sculptures with chain saws.  Their fails—and oh boy are there fails as well as successes--involve blood, teeth marks and bad things happening to the offending dog. 
Which brings me back to the various dog training gurus who are either seeking or promising the training Holy Grail--instant, 100% guaranteed performance from the dogs.  It doesn’t exist, of course.  We can get 100% perfection from some dogs with some behaviors some of the time, and roughly 80-90% from most dogs with many behaviors most of the time, but we can’t get 100% from all dogs in all behaviors all of the time.  What we can get from the vast majority of our pets is improvement in the specific behaviors that matter most to us—and the start of that improvement begins with our own skill as teachers.
In the next section, I’m going to talk about specific, concrete things we can do to improve our skills as teachers of our dogs.  We can call it being better Leaders, though I’m not sure the term helps.   What I am sure of, though, is that there are giant piles of improvements that we can make long before we consider turning to the Elses of Forced Following.  We can take on a practice of simple, kindly things that are easy to execute, offer little danger of icky side effects and can make huge differences in your life with your dog.
Part 6 coming soon!

On Leaders, Babies and Bathwater, Part Four

Posted on August 7, 2014 at 6:57 PM Comments comments (89)
The second kind of Following, what I’m calling Strategic Following, is in many ways the most complex and nuanced.  I’m not blindly obeying Mum because it’s a habit I formed when I was tiny or I’m utterly dependent on her for survival.  I’m not being forced to follow by threats, pain or fear.  I’m Following because, in some way or another, it serves my best interests.  
Calling this “Strategic” Following is probably a mistake on my part, implying that the animal is making calculated decisions and manipulations.  They’re not, not really.  This kind of Following isn’t strategic as in Machiavellian; it’s strategic as in Darwinian.  If a behavior enhances survival and reproductive fitness, it’ll be in our behavior repertoire for use when the circumstances call for it.  The strategic or calculated part is recognizing in what situations and contexts Following will get us more bang for our fitness buck, something social animals are extraordinarily good at.  Adaptive Following might be a better term.  The thing is, the point of any behavior is to enhance fitness, or, in simpler terms, to have things come out better for the animal, not worse.  And that’s a better (more pleasure, resources or access to resources) according to the Following Dog, not the Leading Human.  Therein lies the mess.
Strategic Following comes in two broad flavors.  The first is simple:  Mutual Interests.  I’m Following you because we’re already going in the same direction, it’s more fun or safer or more effective to go together, I like company, I’m social and why not?  We’re both going out for pizza, let’s car pool.  You just happen to be a bit more energetic, have a better car, or care about it more, so I let you drive.  No fight or quarrel from me—I will follow your lead because you’re taking me where I already want to go.  Or, I just like you and enjoy the ride.  In this flavor, Follower/Leader may be a loose relationship that depends pretty much on a spatial or temporal dynamic:  who goes or gets there first?  Some days it might be me, some days it might be you.
I see this form of Following often in feral cat colonies:  one cat starts heading for the bushes and two more get up and tag along.  Why?  Maybe it got too hot on the porch and the sight of the first cat moving inspired the others to wake up.  Maybe cats Two and Three are merely curious and want to see what First Cat is checking out.  Or maybe they just like hanging out together.  It seems like a weak kind of Following—First Cat isn’t making the other cats do anything—but if the learning conditions are right, it can acquire an almost magical power. 
It’s simply this:  if Following First Cat reliably and predictably leads to pleasurable things—cool napping spots, fresh drinking water, a nest of fallen birds or a package of catnip mousies—First Cat will acquire Followers.   Just like a hot movie star, a well-written blog or an amusing Facebook page will acquire Followers.   It’s not the authoritative version of “Lead” we’re used to thinking about in a dog training context.  But anyone who has ever watched old news footage of thousands of hysterical teenagers greeting the arrival of the Beetles can tell you—Fandom can be an extremely intense form of Following.  Some of those sobbing children would have quite literally died for their favorite Beetle.  I can think of famous people I’ve never even met to whom I would, without hesitation, happily offer the proverbial shirt off my back, because their writings or music or science took me to places of pleasure I couldn’t reach on my own.  I Follow them not because they demand it but because I love where they take me.
There can be a Dark Side to this kind of Following, sure—stalking in fans, separation anxiety in dogs—but on the whole, I think the Pop Culture notion of dog training radically under-estimates how important this kind of Following is.   If I could hit the reset button, my message to pet owners might be something like this:  less Pack Leader, more Rock Star.  Or more First Cat.  If we reliably and predictably take our dogs to places, activities and resources they love, they will Follow us.  They will become our very best Fans.
The second flavor of Strategic Following is also based on mutual interests, but there’s a more obvious Follow/Lead dynamic for a very simple reason:  one of us is either better or more competent at something or one of us has access or control of resources that the other one wants.  If I’m hungry and you’re the one with the directions to the pizza place, I will Follow you.  If I’m the one with the good singing voice, I’ll get nudged into leading Happy Birthday at the party.  If my car has a flat and Joe knows how to fix a flat tire, I’ll gladly take his direction.  If you are the millionaire, you may acquire an entourage of flatterers currying your ego in the hopes of scoring some cash.  We do this all the time:  if we know someone is really good at something or has control of something we dearly want, we’re usually happy to let them Lead or become Followers.  Usually.  There are conditions, though, and they’re interesting.
In the first variation—that of greater expertise--while most of us are perfectly delighted to defer to greater skill and experience, we won’t Follow very long if it turns out that we’re mistaken.  If we grant someone the Leader position, we expect them to be able to deliver the goods.  If it turns out that they’re a crummy Leader—they don’t know where the restaurant is, they don’t know how to fix the toilet, they don’t know how to set up the tent—we will re-evaluate.
If there are no major social side-effects (like offending our boss or hurting our best friend’s feelings), we may simply flip on our Garmin or grab the crescent wrench or tent poles and assume the Lead ourselves.  Rarely is this because we really want to be Alpha; what we really want is dinner, a toilet that flushes and the tent up before nightfall.  If we refrain from taking over—and some of us will bite our tongues and inhibit—it’s often because being “nice” and socially accepted is more important to us than the immediate outcome.  Or because we completely lack the needed skill set and simply can’t take over.  In either case, we’ll stash the experience in our learning file:  don’t Follow that person again.  Either find another, more competent Leader or DIY.  Or, in matters of small importance or when maintaining the social component is huge, we may continue to bite our tongues and Follow—it’s called humoring, which can be gracious or grudging.  As a general rule and absent those pesky social complications, the better and more confident we are at something and the more we care about the outcome, the fussier we are about who we’ll Follow.  If we’re good at the task, our expectations will he higher: ineptitude will be painfully obvious. 
In the second variation—control of resources—the terms are very much the same.  If we Follow someone because they control access to desired resources, we expect them to pay up.   At least often enough, and generously enough, to make it worth our while.  If they don’t, if it turns out that they’re a stingy Leader—they never share, they never really give us what we want or they make us work too hard for too little—we will start looking for work-arounds.  Maybe we need to work for another company, find a better Boss, find an indirect way (cheating, sneaking) to get to the resources or learn to get the resources ourselves without help.   
The general rule here is—the more valuable the resource is and the harder it is to find, the more guff we’ll take from whomever controls it.  But very few of us will take infinite amounts of guff.  We may stomach a tyrannical Captain Bligh if he’s a good captain and leads us to glory and treasure; we may continue to stomach him if we’re under fire and he’s an excellent fighter who protects us during battle.   But if he’s a tyrant and an idiot and a lousy fighter, we will start planning our mutiny at the earliest opportunity.   
Of course, if he’s Captain Jolly who dishes out extra rum, we may Follow him even if he’s a bit of an idiot—until war breaks out and his idiocy puts us at real risk.  Then, we’ll probably try to be nicer about how we conduct our mutiny, since we like the poor guy—but we’ll still mutiny if we feel our lives depend on it.
The first flavor of Strategic Following—the one revolving around the perception of expertise—is less commonly considered in dog training than the idea of controlling resources.  But I have to say, it worries me a bit.   See, if I had the magic machine that could ask my dog Tinker what was most important to her in her world-view, I have a nagging hunch the answer would revolve around a sun other than lil ole me.  My hunch is, it would be something like, “Sniffing.  Hunting.  Critters.  RACCOON ON THE FENCE!  Sniffing.  Sniffing.   Hunting.”   Nothing lights my Catahoula mix up like the raccoon on the fence—the intensity of it vibrates through every muscle, the dead-still focus of her point, her gaze, the explosion when she judges the moment is ripe to have a go.  It’s got the feel of something very old, very elemental.  In that raw primitive way, it’s beautiful to see.
It is also, of course, a complete pain in the behind in a pet dog that’s supposed to be obedient to me, not her inner predatory drummer.  So I should be the Leader, yadda yadda, except when it comes to that, we’re not even marching in the same parade.  When it comes to providing expertise in the all-important skill-set of hunting, I suck.  I suspect Tinker—who is not stupid—knows that I suck.  My nose is worthless, I’m pitifully slow, I never try to bite anything—golly, it’s like I don’t even care about getting that raccoon in my teeth for a meal.  It would be one thing for Tinker to Follow me if I was the better hunter.  But to Follow me when there’s a raccoon on the fence and the path is Don’t Hunt…?   How would she wrap her mind around that?  How could she? 
Telling her, “No, stop!” isn’t Leading in this context.  If we are clear on nothing else, we must be clear on that.   It’s abandoning the field, refusing to participate in what to her is the Greatest Game Ever Played.  Being a great Leader of the football team doesn’t mean pulling out sets of knitting needles and telling all the linebackers, “No, stop, don’t tackle, make baby booties.”  If we look at Strategic Following, Adaptive Following, it’s not blind.  It’s situational, contextual.  It’s Following not for the benefit of the Leader, but for the entire social group Team.  Critters that Follow the Leader down a primrose path over a cliff on the Leader’s every random whim may be marvels of obedience but there aren’t many of them around: they go splat! or starve before they reach reproductive age and pass their genes along.
It’s easy to be seduced by the dark side of Be the Leader with these dogs—we want so desperately for our linebackers to mend their ways, to no stop don’t and take up gentile pursuits like knitting baby booties or coming when called.  The flaw in the thinking is that many of the behaviors that I see distressing pet owners the most are entirely natural, common doggy behaviors.  Perhaps a few ticks more intense than the human is used to but normal.  The conflicts that ensue often don’t resemble a frustrated owner trying to establish “Leadership” over her dog, but a bewildered owner trying to morph an energetic, highly active social predator into a completely different animal.   And that’s not what Strategic aka Adaptive Following does.
When we ask our dogs to abandon behaviors that they really care about and that they’re really good at in favor of behaviors that our human sensibilities find more appealing that they don’t care about and aren’t good at… hmm.  If someone asked me to give up something I that dearly mattered to me—some talent core to my being--out of my “love” for them, I would wonder:  Do you know who I am?  Are you appreciating or connecting to me as an individual with talents and desires and needs of her own?  Dogs of course are not philosophic or conceptual about this.  Tinker is blessedly straightforward:  there’s a Raccoon on the Fence, she really cares about it, she’s really good at it and if I have nothing helpful to contribute, she’ll flip on her own Garmin and DIY.   “No” is not Leading.  It’s being a killjoy.
And she would be fair to ask, like many dogs if they could ask, “If you don’t like my hunting (herding/drooling/digging/shedding) why the hell did you get a Catahoula (Border collie, Mastiff, Terrier, Shepherd etc.)?”  The fact that I thought I was adopting an adorable little Australian Cattle Dog puppy is no fault of hers.  It leaves us with a challenge, but it’s not the challenge of Who’s the Boss?
What I need to find with Tinker—as with any successful long-term relationship--isn’t control.  It’s compatibility.   When it comes to Strategic Following, important in the design is—mutual interests, mutual goals.  Wanting the same things.  Being headed in the same direction.  Wolves and coyotes and foxes have no problems with this with each other: they are the same species and the compatibility is fundamentally shared.  They don’t tell each other, “Don’t hunt, don’t roll in stinky dead stuff, don’t dig.”  Their Strategic Following is about joining up with great hunters, tagging after the critters that know where the best stinky stuff is to roll in and learning from experts how to dig even better. 
To the degree that owners have or can cultivate core compatibilities with their dogs, the relationship will flow like a dance, effortlessly and easily.  To the degree that the core compatibilities are missing, or missing in extreme—well, it’s just hard.  Couch potato person with Energizer Bunny Dog is the classic bad fit; there are others.  These are folks and dogs I see at the shelter and they break my heart.  Lovely people, lovely dog, absolutely the wrong match.  If the gap between behavior reality and owner expectation isn’t too extreme, for certain training can bring dog and owner closer together and reduce tensions.  The wider the gap, though, the more work it will take to get them on the same path.  If the gap is a yawning chasm, it may be impossible, not because the dog can’t learn and the owner can’t learn, but because there’s too little positive reinforcement present in the relationship to motivate them to do the work.
The other trap is that we tend to work the problem from the wrong end:  we stand in our frustrated and disappointed expectations and try to drag the dog across the chasm to our side.  In wide disconnects, though, the distance is too far and the ropes of the relationship too thin to take the strain.  Good training always starts on the other end: in the behavior reality.  The dog is here.  I have to stand next to the dog, connect to that dog, that place.  Only then can we, step by step, start working our way across the gap.

In the next blog, I’m going to bounce ahead and talk about the last type of Following, Forced Following, and then return to that staple of dog trainers everywhere, encouraging Strategic Following by leveraging resources.  Until then, a couple of take-aways.
The good news about Juvenile Following is that very young puppies are often delighted to let us chose the direction, the path, the game itself:  they haven’t been around long enough to have developed strong preferences.  We can and should take advantage of this period to establish good habit patterns from the start.  The bad news is—most of the time, Juvenile Following fades with maturity, and if we didn’t establish the habits, we’ve missed a boat that’s not coming back for us.  And if we acquired an older dog, an adult dog from a rescue, say, the boat may be long far gone.  Not always—there are some lovely dogs that retain the puppy-like ease, or that seem to slide from Juvenile Following to Fandom with few glitches.  They are compatible with us and our human ways, and living with them is rarely a struggle.  A lot of dogs are just like that.  But it’s not a guarantee, not part-and-parcel of every dog. 
There are dogs that come to us, whether puppy or adult, with some potentially very powerful behaviors pre-installed.  Hunting, herding, being sensitive to sound or movement, nervous of novelty, fearful of strangers, inclined to “think” with their amazing noses or dig lunar landscapes in our gardens--we don’t teach them this stuff.  We can if it’s moderate make it better or worse by reinforcing it, or preventing repetition and practice.  Not always, though.  My darling Corgi Fox needed no practice, no repetition, no prior history to turn on like a light bulb and starting herding his first-ever seen sheep.  Tinker knows exactly how to drive a raccoon up a tree.   These “hard-wired” behaviors can usurp the Juvenile Following tendencies at a very young age because they’re supposed to:  they are what the dog or the dog’s ancestors were bred for.  And for these behaviors, Strategic Following via greater expertise is counter-indicated, so to speak.  Because for these behaviors, unless we really are taking our dogs herding, or hunting, or sledding, or to earth dog trials or lure coursing or any of the sporty versions that harness and work with these “drives” rather than against them--we can’t Lead.  We don’t know how to Lead.  We have no skills, no wisdom, no help to offer.  We stand on the sidelines going, “No, stop, don’t!”  We’re killjoys, not experts.  Worse, we’re upset, frustrated and ineffective killjoys, waving knitting needles and baby booties in the middle of a football field while our pumped-up linebackers run amok.  From a cost-benefit Strategic Following standpoint, the dogs are absolutely right to ignore us:  we have no mutual interests.  We’re not even playing the same game.
Does that mean we throw up our hands in despair and abandon all hope of ever getting our dogs with us?  Heck, no.  It does mean—you start with the dog you have.  In behavior reality.  Because if you want to train or teach or lead effectively, you have to know the animal, what matters in their world.
Tinker and I are a work-in-progress, and I have a goal for us.  When she looks at me, there’s something I want her to see.  Not a Great Leader, not the Boss, not the Alpha.  When she looks at me, I want her, on whatever level her doggy mind processes it, to know this:
Tinker, I feel you.  I see you.  I will always see you.