Training the Trainer

I am one of the most undisciplined people you could ever meet. No gratification is immediate enough for me. So naturally we adopted a dog who was my canine prototype. My wife figured that if Hamilton was ever to get his rambunctious behavior under control he and I would have to go to training. Late in my middle age I would need to learn patience and the necessity for rules and boundaries. And so would Hamilton. It would be a tall task for both of us and whoever would undertake to teach us.

My wife does her research. She spent several days searching the web and found Andrea Arden. She was well known in New York for her positive approach to dog training. Classes were offered at the New York Dog Spa and Hotel and at Biscuits and Bath in Manhattan. We signed up for evening classes at the New York Dog Spa and Hotel in Chelsea.

Hamilton was partially house trained but a poor walker. By this time he was nearly four months old and steps needed to be taken. I couldn't function much longer racing home from my office to get him out every couple of hours. Nor was the expected exercise that I was to get from his walks going to occur if each and every change in direction was a negotiation. I would pull and he would pull back, squatting on his haunches.

I am a large person but with Hamilton's rate of growth I would soon be losing these battles of will. His pulling advantage was increased by our use of a harness that clipped the leash on his back rather than his collar. Using just a collar proved impossible. He would pull against it until he choked himself. I was getting nasty looks from people as a result. So we went for the harness.

School started for Hamilton and me right after Labor Day ( my wife came along to monitor our performance ). I was 55 years old and reliving the most miserable moments of my life, the end of summer and the return to school. Whether it was elementary or high school, it always started the Wednesday after Labor Day, making the Tuesday in between the most depressing day of the year. It took college to get me to look forward to the turning of the leaves. Even so, to this day, I can't completely shake the gloom I feel during the fall weather.

To Hamilton gloom is the result of not getting his toys to play with or the treat he desires. Going to school was a thrill. First there was the ride in the pet cab ( more on this in a later post ), then there was the excitement of going into the Dog Spa with it smells and other dogs being boarded or groomed. He is a highly social dog. In his class there were dogs of various sizes. The one characteristic they all shared was that they were under six months old. I was in a room with a dozen frolicking, yapping, cosseted puppies.

These are the dogs of Manhattan. They are chauffeured to private school, indulged with toys and activities and many are provided nannies in the form of dog walkers, groomers and day care centers. It was a life that my dog Rusty on the South Side of Chicago could never have imagined. Hamilton embraced this world. Originally saved from a kill shelter in West Virginia by a rescue society from New Jersey, he now had a driver, a tutor and dog food made from human grade ingredients, and many new playmates. He was delighted.

Our instructor lined us up around the room and explained the principles of positive, dog-friendly training: rewarding good behaviors, preventive management and using gentle methods to teach. Our lessons took place over six weeks. Emphasis was on how we as owners needed to understand our dogs needs and behaviors and to use kindness and food or treats to reward desired behaviors rather than violence and anger to punish bad behaviors. The result with Hamilton is that we now have, by our friends and neighbors admission, a mostly well behaved and, most importantly, happy dog. He is house trained, walks calmly beside me, barks only at appropriate times, is not possessive of food or toys and almost always ( no one's perfect ) leaves discarded food and junk alone when commanded to do so on our walks. He sits in the elevator and lobby and at the curb on his own. He sits, stays, comes, lies down and rolls over when asked. If he is being too rambunctious all we need to do is tell him to "settle down" and he stops the offending behavior and lies down ( at least briefly).

It was the instructor at the Dog Spa that recommended we use the Easy Walk harness to teach Hamilton how to walk. We were running out of ideas. We tried a Gentle Leader and a Halti but he hated having the straps around his muzzle. He would stubbornly sit and refuse to move. The Easy Walk fit around his back like most harnesses but the leash clipped to the strap across his chest instead of his back. This leash placement shifted the leverage to me and I was able to guide him where to go rather than having him pull me.

The instructor also recommended we use a clicker to signal a reward each time he walked by my side rather than running ahead of us. Click, and he received a treat if he stayed by my side. Run ahead, no click, no treat. Very Pavlovian.

My wife points out that she's been using Pavlovian training on me for many years. She thought I needed some remedial help so we took Hamilton to additional puppy training at the Murray Hill location of Biscuits and Bath. From that instructor we learned about tethering as a way to dissuade Hamilton from misbehaving. Saying " Oh no, Hamilton", putting him on his leash and placing the leash on a door knob to inhibit his movement and remove him from our presence. This proved so effective that even though he is now full grown and would be hard to tie down in our apartment, all we need to do is show him his leash or say " Oh no, Hamilton", and he immediately stops his offending behavior and settles down on his own.

To contact Andrea Arden about her dog training seminars and classes use www.manhattandogtraining.com. This is an unsolicited recommendation. I've never met her personally. I am just a very satisfied customer. And if you should be walking in Manhattan and come across a dog named Hamilton you will see why. OK- he does still jump on people when he's excited, but we never expected perfection. After all, look at me.

The Curse of Old Yeller

Looking back I can't blame my parents. After all Old Yeller was a Walt Disney movie. It was about a courageous dog that helped a frontier family survive in the Wild West. At least that was what the movie advertisements implied. And this was 1957 before there were any worries about language and violence being in movies supposedly made for families. Movies were so safe that if a child happened to view a movie targeted to adults the only consequence would be utter boredom.

With Hamilton on his back, belly exposed, sleeping between my wife and I, I found myself often thinking about Old Yeller.I promised myself I would not be caught by surprise again.

As the song went, "Old Yeller was the best doggone dog in the West." Adding to his appeal to me he was a mutt, a dog much more like the dogs we had in my neighborhood. I was thrilled to see the promotions for the movie at the show, as we called our local movie theater. The problem was that this was in the era of limited movie releases. Popular movies were shown downtown first and then slowly made their way to the local theaters. I feared Old Yeller would die of old age before his adventures came to our local Peoples movie theater. I reconciled myself with adapting the story to my imagined adventures with my own dog, Rusty, " The best doggone dog on the South Side" of Chicago.

Based on what I knew from the promotions I created all sorts of triumphant adventures where Rusty and I fought off Indians invaders, pirates and lions and tigers. Rusty sat patiently by my side while I manipulated my toy soldiers and animals to tell our courageous stories.

Finally, Old Yeller arrived at the Peoples Theater. With my allowance of $1.00 I could get a ticket and popcorn and a Coke. My mother had no hesitation letting me go to the show for the afternoon. After lunch I would often walk to the theater and return home at 5 p.m. giving her and my father four glorious hours of privacy.

I went to see Old Yeller by myself. My friends were not interested. I didn't mind. I actually preferred to go to the show by myself. My friends would always want to talk during the movie or leave early. I always wanted to catch every word so that I could replay the movie later and make my own modifications to improve the story. I would always provide myself with heroic parts although I was careful not to usurp my heroes. I wanted to be their trusted companion, someone they could depend on in a jam.

Before I bought my ticket I always stopped at the Walgreen's across the street from the theater. I could get a big plastic bag of popcorn for the same price that the theater charged for a small box. The bag of popcorn was so large that after placing it on my lap I would initially have to look around it to see the movie screen.

That afternoon I felt lucky. There were both a Donald Duck and a Goofy cartoon. When Old Yeller started I sang my revised theme song under my breath, " Rusty was a puppy, a rough and ready puppy, best doggone dog on the South Side.". I need not have worried. There were a surprising number of empty seats around me. I guessed people had lost patience with Old Yeller's arrival.

Much to my delight Old Yeller enters the picture fairly early, chasing a rabbit onto the farm of Travis, my fictional counterpart. He was the eldest son of the farm family who would adopt Old Yeller. Old Yeller immediately shows his rapscallion character by stealing some meat from the family. Later, he shows his meddle by not stealing meat when tested by Travis. And he also shows his courage by saving the annoying little brother, Arliss, from a grizzly bear and Travis from a Wild Boar herd.

These exploits win Travis and his family over. Now he sleeps inside with them and has become their trusted pet and guardian. No sooner does this welcome turn of events occur when the specter of hydrophobia arrives. I didn't have a clue what that was but the script made it sound terrible, a form of madness, demonstrated by foam seeping from the mouth. No worry, Old Yeller was smart enough to stay away from anyone with excess drool coming from their mouths. And if Travis or pain-in-the-ass Arliss were in danger Old Yeller would save them. Surely this was the point of the movie. The good dog saves the family and is rewarded with their love. I knew this moral from my vast experience watching such heroic dogs as Lassie and Rin Tin Tin on television. Valor and bravery always prevailed whether from avalanches, cave ins, floods or wild beasts. Old Yeller surely demonstrated he was as true as they were.

I began to have some foreboding. Visually the movie seemed to be getting darker. Was I imagining this or did the screen suddenly have a veil drop in front of it so the scenes looked murkier?

Old Yeller confronts a wolf threatening his adopted family. The wolf is drooling. Old Yeller engages the wolf in battle. Travis comes out and shoots the wolf. Old Yeller is injured. Should he be put out of his misery?

Wait a minute! Put out of his misery? This doesn't happen to Lassie. Rin Tin Tin dodges arrows and rifle shots and Old Yeller can't fight off a rabid wolf? This can't be. He'll recover. There will be more glorious adventures. His own television show must be in the works, " Here Yeller, come back Yeller, best doggone dog in the West."

Travis, wily as ever, comes up with another test. They lock Old Yeller in the barn to see how he fares. This looks good. See he's getting better. Travis visits him one night. Not so good. Yeller snarls at him. He seems to be transformed into some other creature. Stupid Arliss almost accidentally releases the rabid Yeller. Travis has a rifle. He can't wait any longer.

I sink in my seat holding my popcorn bag in front of me. I hear a shot from the screen. The rest of the movie is a blur. There are some puppies. One is yellow - Little Yeller. I don't care. I throw my popcorn in the garbage and walk home stunned. I hear my mother ask me how the movie was. I go to my room and lie on the bed and call for Rusty.

Many nights looking at Hamilton lying on the bed I relive that afternoon. Sometimes I see it unfold completely. Other nights I hear the rifle shot amidst other thoughts. I won't be able to sleep for awhile. I want to pet him but I don't want to wake him.