It was déjà vu, complete with the familiar chuckles from the sidelines while my dog swam on his belly out into the middle of the ring to disqualify our otherwise acceptable performance. Another weekend with no ribbons to take home and no legs earned toward his title.
Sometime later I figured out that to solve the problem I had to think more like a dog or at least know what was going on in this dog’s mind. The obvious fact was that when he knew that he was tethered he didn’t even try to move, but when he felt free, or felt that he was in a different situation, he would test to see if he was still restrained. If the test failed and he was free, he would carefully try to work his way back to me regardless of my command to stay.
“So how do I convince you that you are still tied down when you are not?” I asked him.
“Look at it this way,” it was a goofy, patronizing voice that answered, “I obviously am not seeing the shark line. That’s because us dogs are all dreadfully far-sighted, and since the fish line is close and transparent, it’s really hard to see. That means that what tells me that I’m tied to something is the feeling of the tug at my collar. All you have to do is to tug my collar from forty feet away.”
The idea that popped into my mind was simple: Flint must feel the tug before he decided to move. That tug had to be felt whether he was physically tethered or not.
Training then became quite simple. Each time I would put the shark line on Flint to hold him in place, after clipping the line on, I would give a sharp downward tug on his collar before I moved away. This served two purposes. First, it confirmed that the clip was securely attached and, second, it signaled to Flint that the line was attached. I mixed this action with some training sessions where I would put him in a down-stay position without tethering him and with no tug. At these times I would come back to face him, then back away a few steps and call him to me. As he walked toward me, his freedom confirmed that he was not tied. What Flint didn’t know was that I was building a signal for him. A tug on his collar before I moved meant his movements were restricted. No tug meant that he was not.
Now the real test. Again I found myself in the obedience ring with Flint, and again we were working toward a qualifying score except for the sit and down stays. Now, however, after I removed his leash, I made a show of fumbling with his collar and finished with a sharp tug on it before I stood up. Flint’s sit-stay was rock solid.
I returned from the other side of the ring and waited for the judge to say “Exercise finished.” At that moment I bent down to fumble with Flint’s collar again, and I may even have mumbled something like “Let me check that shark line.” Again just before I stood up I gave another sharp tug on the collar. Flint looked at me, and I thought that I heard him give a little sigh. I didn’t know whether that was a good or bad sign. At the judge’s command I ordered Flint to lie down and to stay, then walked to the far end of the ring. Flint was still lying there. Once he stirred a bit to look behind him. I think that he was looking for the tether, but he seemed to be more clearly trusting that the tugs that I gave him represented reliable information that he was physically anchored in place, rather than relying on the usually less dependable information from his vision.
The judge ordered us back to our dogs, and when the exercise finished I made another big fuss and fumbled with his collar as if removing the shark line. As we left the ring I told him how proud I was of his performance, and he made a little sneezing sound as if to say, “And what choice did I have, since you left me tied down?”
When we exited the ring I got congratulatory hugs from both Barbaras, Shirley, and Emma, and Flint got treats from everybody. Barbara Merkley gave a big smile and announced, “Just two more to go!”
We did get two more qualifying scores, not particularly high scores, but nonetheless qualifying. Now Flint had his first obedience title and, since I had taken a dog through to a title, Barbara Baker invited me to teach a beginners’ dog obedience class. At our club, the minimum requirement for becoming an instructor for any class is that you have taken a dog through obedience competition to earn a title equivalent or higher than the level that you are teaching. After you serve an apprenticeship as an assistant instructor and demonstrate that you have teaching skills, you are given your own class. This allows these carefully chosen individuals to spend many hours performing unpaid but generally pleasant service to the community.
Having earned his third qualifying scores, Flint was officially now a Companion Dog and therefore entitled to announce that fact by adding the letters CD after his name in all official documents. I was elated and proudly took him home and announced, “Well, Joannie, Flint has now been certified as a CD.”
She looked up from her knitting and asked, “And CD stands for ‘Crazy Dog’?”
CHAPTER 16
THE GRAY KNIGHT
One day I came home, closed the front door behind me, and immediately heard “Bring that back!” as a flash of gray fur with a carrot-shaped tail and something white dangling from his mouth shot past me and into my office with my wife in hot pursuit. I reached out and circled my arms around Joan.
“It’s okay. Whatever he’s got this time I’ll retrieve it for you,” I said and gave her a light kiss on the cheek and walked after Flint.
I stepped into my office and called Flint, who took a few steps forward. On the floor beside him was a small notepad, with a phone number written on the top page in Joan’s handwriting, along with a few tooth marks and a splash of dog drool. I gave Flint a pat for coming and picked up the pad. Joan had been on the phone and had written down this number but had accidentally knocked the pad off the end table in such a way that it had skittered across the floor, a clear target for a terrier’s chase instincts.
I gave Joannie the pad and another hug. She looked at Flint, who had tagged along behind, and shook her head. There were no harsh words and no later bringing up of the incident.
Over the five years that Flint had lived with us, I had come to understand that my dog was a pretty good barometer for what was going on in Joannie’s emotional life. If all was going well, she could tolerate an occasional “event,” but if she was stressed, her displeasure with Flint’s noisy barking, his high activity level, or his unpredictability could escalate into a major flare-up.
Regardless of her state of mind, Joan never abused Flint. She might yell at him, stamp her foot, or wave her finger in a threatening manner, but when I was away at meetings and conferences for several days at time, she would care for him and feed him, and when I returned, he was never the worse for wear.
Flint seemed to take Joannie’s outbursts of displeasure as simply part of her natural behavior that had little lasting consequence for him. Within a quarter hour of any incident, he would be bouncing around the house in his typical manner or comfortably curled up in any of several places where he liked to nap.
Flint always seemed affectionate toward Joan and greeted her at the door with the same enthusiasm that he welcomed me or any friendly visitor. His continuing good cheer and warm nature often broke through to her. When she opened the door on returning home, she would sometimes look at this convivial little terrier and give a bit of a smile. Now and then she would accompany it with a comment like “Hello, silly dog” in the same affectionate tone that we might greet one of our grandchildren today by saying something like, “Hi there, silly child.”
Sometimes Flint’s behavior would actually amuse Joan. One weekend when I was away at a scientific meeting and called home just to check in and chat for a few minutes, I could tell from Joannie’s tone of voice that she was smiling as she said, “You know, Flint really loves you and misses you.”
This was a surprising statement from her, so I asked, “What makes you say that?”
“Well, this afternoon I thought that I was having some kind of weird mental experience—maybe telepathy or something. I was in the kitchen baking cookies and kept hearing your voice. I couldn’t quite make out what you were saying except that I thought that I heard y
ou say my name and Flint’s. This happened several times before I dropped what I was doing and went into the living room.”
At that time we had an old phone answering machine that used a large cassette tape. At the front of the machine were two large buttons, one of which played any messages and a second one that rewound the tape. All of the other controls were smaller and placed farther back. I had called home the previous evening and Joan was not home, so I left a message telling her that I was okay and that I loved her. As I usually did when I was away, I left the hopeful instruction, “Give Flint a pat from me.”
Joan had not noticed the message until around noon the next day, and after listening, had not bothered to erase it. Flint had heard my voice and his name and must have climbed up on the sofa and leaned over the end table where we kept the phone and answering machine, and, either through happenstance or from watching Joan, he figured out that by pushing one of the big buttons he could hear me speaking and mentioning his name. Once he had learned this, he began to play the message at regular intervals, obviously deriving some pleasure from the sound of my voice and his name.
As she related this story to me, rather than being annoyed at Flint’s antics, she gave a little chuckle and said, “It’s a good thing that he hasn’t figured out how to dial the phone, otherwise he’d be racking up lots of long-distance charges trying to reach you while you are away.”
Flint accepted all acknowledgments of his existence as friendly overtures. In his mind, Joan was an integral part of our household pack, and although his primary bond was with me, she was also entitled to his affection, attention, and acts of gallantry—if she chose to accept them.
Perhaps the most dramatic instance of Flint’s display of caring for Joan happened one afternoon when she was alone with him. Less than an hour after the event I returned home, and Joan looked at me with a serious expression and told me that there had been an “incident.”
Generally confident and independent, Joan grew up in a quiet, law-abiding city in Alberta, and then spent much of her life in small communities and rural settings, in contrast to my big-city, urban upbringing. Having lived in New York, I am always very concerned about household security and safety, always making sure that doors are locked, even when I am inside. I also tend to greet strangers at the door with a dollop of suspicion until I know who they are and what they want. Joan is quite the opposite and often leaves the house to run errands without setting the security alarm. She also greets people who come to the door openly, without any evidence of caution or hesitation.
This time she had heard the doorbell ring, and when she arrived at the door saw a large man standing there who asked if he could use our phone. Because he looked rather scruffy, Joan was more hesitant than usual and didn’t want him in our home. Instead, she offered to make the call for him if he supplied her with the phone number. The man scowled at her, and without saying another word, pushed the door open fully and stepped into the house.
She told me, “He made me very uneasy—barging in like that, and I didn’t know what to do next. Then, suddenly, Flint was there between us. I have never seen him act like that. He wasn’t barking, he was growling. His hair was standing up, his teeth were showing, and he was snapping at the guy as if he wanted to tear a chunk out of him. I never heard him growl like that before—it was really scary.”
Flint was not a large dog and weighed perhaps 22 pounds at his heaviest. But confronted by an animal growling, snapping, and displaying its teeth as weapons, the intruder defensively raised his hands and took a couple of steps back, just enough to place him on the other side of the threshold. Joan took the opportunity to rush forward to close and lock the door. A few moments later the man moved away from the door and disappeared down the street.
“I don’t know what triggered that kind of response from Flint. He is usually so friendly to anyone who comes to the door. But I was glad that he was there. That guy made me nervous and I certainly didn’t want him in our living room.”
Joan’s admission that she was “nervous” was as close to admitting that she was terrified as I would ever hear. Because the man scared her, she had probably given off pheromones, biological scents that dogs use to determine the emotional state of mind of other individuals, and Flint had responded to her anxiety by rallying to her defense.
“I was glad that he did, but he’s just a small dog and the man could have …” Her eyes flitted momentarily in Flint’s direction.
I put my arm around her and said, “A great general once remarked, ‘It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, but the size of the fight in the dog that matters.’ There’s a lot of fight in Flint.”
Although she was not particularly expressive about it, Flint had clearly risen in Joan’s estimation that day.
To help Joan relax, I offered to open a bottle of wine and I put on some music. I had recently been given a lovely album of Strauss waltzes and Joan loves ballroom dancing. While the music played, I went into the kitchen, I opened the wine, and poured some into two pretty glasses. When I walked back into the room, Joannie was bent over and holding Flint’s front paws as he stood on his hind legs. They were waltzing.
I quietly backed out and grabbed a camera that just happened to be on the counter, and took a candid photo of the event, since I might not live to see another performance. I then went back for the wineglasses and by the time I reentered the room, the waltz was ending. I did not tell Joan that I had seen her performance, since I didn’t want to chance marring the moment.
Joan and Flint were waltzing.
Joan and I sat, sipping wine and just talking. Later, when Joan got up to leave the room for a moment. I leaned over to pat Flint, who was lying with his head on my foot and said, “You really are a brave and gallant warrior.”
“And a good dancer, too!” he replied.
CHAPTER 17
CHANGES
Things were getting a bit tense in my home once again. At first I thought that this was simply a continuation of Flint and Joan’s on-again, off-again personality clash. Joan needed order, quiet, and predictability, but neither Flint nor I was orderly and predictable, which was hard on her. But since she loved me, and since everyone expects university professors to be a bit absentminded and inattentive to conditions around them, she pardoned my behavior. Flint’s lapses were less excusable.
Flint was once again proving that he had a mind of his own, and his likes and dislikes violated Joan’s sense of order and decorum. Joannie would shoo Flint off a chair only to see him immediately jump up on the sofa. She would push him off one side of the bed only to have him jump back up on the other. She would scold him for barking at the door only to have him begin barking at the window.
One day, she had some friends over for afternoon coffee. Flint hung around the group, nosing at the visitors to test the possibility that one of them might scratch his ear or accidentally drop something edible. Concerned that he might be annoying her guests, Joan waved him away.
“Flint, stop bothering these people! Go find something interesting to do.”
For once, Flint seemed eager to follow her instruction and dashed out of the room with a great sense of purpose. A few minutes later, he reappeared carrying one of Joan’s undergarments, which he dropped in the middle of the floor and played pounce-and-kill games with. Evading capture, he flagrantly snapped it from side to side with great joy, causing great amusement for her company but a great deal of dismay and embarrassment for Joan.
A few minutes later, he reappeared carrying one of Joan’s undergarments and dropped it in the middle of the floor.
Flint’s favorite toys for playing fetch were all made of hard material. When he wanted to play fetch, he would bring a nylon bone-shaped toy, a hard rubber ball, or a rubber Kong and drop it on the floor in front of me. I would toss it and he would chase after it, sometimes retrieving it and sometimes simply grabbing it and running around for a while. He preferred the hard toys because they clattered loudly when I tossed them on t
he bare wooden floors in our house.
Often Flint would decide that he wanted me to toss one of his toys when I was sitting on the sofa reading or watching television. He would then scamper around the house until he found an appropriate toy for me to throw and bring it over to me. Since he was neither neat nor particularly organized, however, the toys were sprinkled around in various locations, and he occasionally seemed distressed when he couldn’t find one quickly enough.
One day Flint came up with an innovative solution to the problem of having an appropriate hard toy at hand. It involved burying them around the cushions of the sofa. He shoved a number of them into the spaces beside, behind, and occasionally under the cushion at the end of the sofa where Joan habitually sat next to me. His plan appeared to be that, when I was sitting on the sofa and Joan was not, he could unearth a toy, drop it in my lap, and then jump off and wait for me to throw it. I thought that he was very clever to reason that, since I would be sitting on one side of the sofa, the toys must be buried in another place, hence on Joan’s side.
Of course, I was thinking as Flint’s master rather than as Joan’s husband. Within a few hours of his first toy-burying episode, Joan came home, tired from a day in the classroom, and dropped herself heavily onto the sofa. Cruel fate had her landing on a hard rubber ball that Flint had left under the cushion. She fished it out and held it up, “What’s this?”
I didn’t have time to explain before she went on to also uncover a hard nylon bone and a plastic dumbbell.
“Did you leave these here or was it your dog?” she demanded.
“He was just leaving his toys in a convenient place where he could pull them out to play fetch,” I said.
“Convenient for you—uncomfortable for me!” She glared at Flint and then threw the dumbbell-shaped thing at him with the sharp instruction, “Take your dumb toy and find another place for it.”
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