Bones Would Rain from the Sky

by Suzanne Clothier

  Having made his point about the awesome power of the dog, the trainer gave a command, and instantly the dog released the sleeve. As he trotted toward his handler, the dog threw a wistful, reluctant glance over his shoulder at me, or more accurately at the sleeve. And that was the second most amazing thing I learned that day: that it was possible to work with a dog so that all his power and skill might be directed on behalf of a puny two-legged who despite physical limitations could find a way to crawl inside a dog’s mind and turn it to his own purposes. What was possible was both thrilling and sobering.

  I do not intend in any way to discount how frightening or dangerous a dog can be. Only a deeply ignorant fool would discount or belittle the dog’s capacity for inflicting damage. I’ve been on the receiving end of bites, heard very deep growls uttered from very big dogs whose lips were just inches from my throat. At age fourteen, I watched helplessly as our family dog tore through my nine-year-old sister’s face and bit off half her ear. I have experienced firsthand what a dog is capable of doing. Nor do I intend to offer false assurance to the reader that a dog’s growl or snap or bite is simply a communication and “natural” and thus not of any great concern. As discussed later, aggression—like all behavior—is communication, and needs to be understood as such. Any aggressive behavior is a very serious warning that must be heeded and promptly attended to, using qualified professional assistance as quickly as possible. The damage that a dog can do in just seconds is staggering—and potentially fatal—and we are fools if we ignore the warnings our dogs give us. Believe the dog when he tells you something is wrong, and move quickly to get help so that you can make things right. Sadly, people find many reasons to avoid addressing a dog’s dangerous behavior: embarrassment, denial, shame, anger and a seriously misguided belief that “he’ll grow out of it.” Promptly heeding the message that something is wrong is an act of loving responsibility in any relationship.

  Make no mistake about it: For all the inhibitions and peacekeeping intentions at work in canine culture, dogs are staggeringly powerful and capable of doing serious damage. Understanding this, you need not rush out and trade in the family dog for a fish tank of guppies, but it’s worth remembering that Mother Nature armed the dog with a variety of skills and weapons that can be deadly. A full appreciation of what the dog is capable of makes us all the more astounded by and grateful for how rarely they bring their power to bear. It should also make us aware of the tremendous responsibility we have as dog owners.

  16

  PUT DOWN THE PANCAKES AND NO ONE GETS HURT

  Everyone believes very easily whatever they fear or desire.

  JEAN DE LA FONTAINE

  IF WE DELVE DEEPLY ENOUGH INTO OUR OWN RESPONSE to what we perceive as aggressive behavior, we may be slightly embarrassed to realize that our trust of dogs in general or even of particular dogs we know extends just so far. It halts precisely at the point where our understanding runs out. The less we know, the less we are likely to trust a dog when he is acting in what we consider to be aggressive ways. If we do not know what our dogs’ behavior means, we may respond with aggression of our own—because we are afraid. If we are unable to distinguish a playful growl from a warning, a complaint from a threat, we have learned only a small portion of our dogs’ language and will inevitably respond inappropriately and in doing so, run the risk of damaging the relationship.

  It’s Sunday morning, and I’m preparing breakfast for a guest. As always, the kitchen floor is awash in dogs (our only carpets are live ones done in natural colors, like black and tan). I hand the guest her plate of pancakes, urging her to eat while they’re still hot. Carson moves to sit politely watching at her side, hopeful that the guest might be abducted by aliens leaving the pancakes ownerless, or at the very least that the guest might offer a starving dog a bite or two. A dog owner herself, the guest is accustomed to eating under close surveillance and fending off potential plate raids, so I don’t bother to tell Carson that staring at people while they eat is considered rude in some countries. Other than assuring Carson that the pancakes are indeed delicious, my guest pays the dog no mind until she hears a growl and looks down to see Carson curling her lips back in an unmistakable snarl. Though a dog lover, my guest is somewhat intimidated by our small army of German Shepherds. Suddenly finding herself with a growling dog’s head aimed at her lap, she freezes, her forkful of pancakes held in midair.

  I’ve heard the growl and, knowing my dogs, don’t even bother to turn around. I have no doubt that it’s just part of a dog-to-dog communication; the times they’ve ever directed a growl at a human being were few and far between, and usually in response to threatening behavior directed at me. But I have forgotten that my guest is not as sure of my dogs, so her tremulous “Why is she doing that?” surprises me. (It’s easy to forget that not everyone lives amongst a swarm of dogs and listens all day to the conversations and currents of the pack. Dogs do swarm, you know—ask anyone who’s visited us.)

  As I turn, I’m already mentally assessing the situation’s components: Carson, pancakes (Carson’s preferred breakfast food), guest (viewed correctly by my dogs as a gullible pushover who might be conned into giving them her whole plate of food), and one or more of the other dogs present. Sure enough, under the table where she cannot be seen by anyone sitting there, Otter has moved in to cover the guest’s other flank. Carson’s growl and snarl are not, as my guest fears, aimed at her vulnerable thighs but rather across her legs and directed solely at Otter. Her message might be roughly translated as “If there’s any pancakes to be had from this sucker, they’re mine.”

  Quickly, I tell both Otter and Carson to go lie down, and I warn Carson that those pancakes are not hers to defend. She looks at me, and for perhaps the thousandth time, I’m glad she cannot speak. I think she might sound too much like a lawyer for my taste—she’s got a defense for everything. “Your Honor, I was simply defending my food from another dog, which, as we all know, is a God-given right and a time-honored dog law.” Questioned as to the actual ownership of the pancakes, Carson might develop the interesting argument of defense by proxy and note that she was not only protecting her potential future interests in the pancakes, but that she was also acting nobly in assisting the guest in staving off a possible raid by Otter. As Carson throws herself into an exasperated heap, sighing dramatically to underline how unfair she considers the whole situation, the guest begins to breathe again.

  What might have happened if I did not have a deep trust in and understanding of my dogs and a good understanding of dog behavior? Carson was doing nothing wrong—she was communicating to Otter, not threatening a guest. Carson’s actions were no different from a mother yelling across a guest at a bratty kid threatening to pour ketchup on her sister’s head; the person being yelled across certainly understands that the warning or promises of various punishments are not directed at her. Having warned the kid against trying to turn her sibling into one of the Heinz 57, a mother might turn and resume a conversation or sweetly inquire if the guest needed a refill on her coffee. Smiling at the guest, the mother might then turn a split second later back toward the kid and assume a frowning, threatening expression of warning, and then soften her expression as she turned back to the guest. She’s not crazy; she’s just a mother.

  Dogs make such conversational shifts as effortlessly and frequently as we do—it’s part and parcel of life as a social species, which sometimes necessitates holding several conversations at the same time or in very rapid succession. We, on the other hand, speak a very slow, stilted form of Dog, so that the mere concept of shifting effortlessly between conversations is beyond us, and—being a somewhat arrogant species—we assume that if it’s beyond us, dogs can’t do it either. Unfortunately for dogs, our ability to see these normal shifts is either nonexistent or it halts the moment a growl begins so that from that point on we literally don’t see what the dog is really doing second by second. Carson, once done with Otter, might have looked up, pure doggy politeness, and wagged h
er tail at the guest who from Carson’s point of view was not included in her conversation with Otter. The guest, stuck in time back at the growl, would be unable to notice and understand Carson’s unmistakably friendly expression toward her and her pancakes.

  If all I saw was a growling dog snarling at a guest, if I did not trust Carson, if I feared that my dogs might be dangerous, if lurking in the back of my mind was a fear that maybe German Shepherds do turn on people without warning, I might have leaped to the wrong conclusion. I might have felt justified in “correcting” Carson by grabbing and yelling at her, which understandably would have been perceived by her as an unprovoked attack by me. If she were not Carson (a stable, trusting dog) but an unstable dog who did not deeply trust me, she might justifiably respond to my unprovoked attack by growling or even snapping at me in self-defense. And if I did not see that as reaction, an understandable act of self-defense, but instead interpreted that as a further threat to me, things could escalate quickly into a pitched battle, hurt feelings if not actual injuries, and my final assessment of Carson as a dangerous dog who had threatened a guest and attacked me. All because Otter hoped to share in whatever pancakes Carson might be able to con out of a guest. Fear seems especially fond of hanging out in vicious circles.

  Dogs find themselves in this situation time and again, their absolutely normal, blameless and nonthreatening-to-human behavior wildly misconstrued by the people around them. It must be very confusing for them.

  GIVE A DOG A BAD NAME AND…

  The majority of dogs presented to me and trainers all over the world as “aggressive” are more often simply out of control, responding to inconsistent or inadequate leadership, undersocialized, afraid, misunderstood, in pain or defending themselves against violent acts against them, some disguised as training. This is not to say that such dogs are harmless—a confused, scared, irritated, angry or disrespectful dog can be quite dangerous; the label “aggressive” is neither descriptive of the scope and potential danger of the behavior nor helpful in resolving the problem behavior. Yet even among professional trainers, there is an appalling lack of understanding of the wide range of behaviors that are broadly categorized as aggression. For some dogs, the lack of understanding can prove fatal. Others get lucky.

  The puppy, Chelsea, entered the room pulling so hard she looked like a fugitive from the Iditarod. Towed along behind her, the human on the other end of the leash was serving more as a speed-moderating device than a guidance system. Tail and ears up, the puppy eagerly bounced around, unable to stand still for more than a second or two as she looked and sniffed. All signs were that she was simply very excited—and more than a little out of control. Upon spotting me, her body posture and attitude changed dramatically: The dog backed up rapidly and began to bark, her tail dropped and wagging though held low in a classic anxious attitude.

  “I suppose you can see the problem,” the woman yelled over the din of the dog’s barking. I just smiled and asked her to have a seat about ten feet away from where I sat quietly. I didn’t see an aggressive dog, only an excited, out-of-control adolescent dog who was also uncertain. While her barking was loud and impressive, there was no serious threat in it—it was fairly high pitched and quick in its repetitions. It was hard to reconcile this dog with the opinions of the owner’s previous instructor: that this dog was very dangerous, would eventually bite, and should be euthanized before she hurt someone.

  While we sat and talked for a while, gathering some background information, the puppy explored as far as she could on leash, leaping back with a startled woof when she accidentally moved a chair. She retreated to her owner’s side to consider the chair with furrowed brow, but when it didn’t move again, she decided it was safe to approach it again. I invited the woman to move closer, intending that the dog would be able to reach me if she wanted to. Cautiously, Chelsea approached and sniffed my shoes and legs. Ready for her approach, I opened my hand and let a small chunk of chicken fall to the floor. This pleasantly surprised the puppy, who eagerly ate the unexpected treat and sniffed around for more. As soon as she glanced my way, I let another treat fall and this time, made sure the dog saw my hand open. She ate it and then stood staring at my hand. I ignored her until she touched my hand with her nose, and then opened my palm to reveal several treats. I gave her one and then quietly asked her to sit, which she did, and I rewarded that with soft praise and the remaining chicken. Surprisingly gentle she cleaned my hand and then looked up at me, her eyes bright and interested. We considered each other, and I noted that direct eye contact, at least in this, particular moment, did not bother her. Her gaze was steady, alert and relaxed.

  Keeping an eye on her, I shifted slightly in my chair to reach the bag of chicken on a table behind me. As I suspected it might, my movement made her back away a few steps, her expression shifting from relaxed to somewhat worried. For a while, we played the simple game of approaching and doing simple things like sit and down in exchange for food, and soon I was able to pet her, tug gently on her collar and run my hands down her back. A touch near her rump made her dance away, neatly placing her hind end well out of my reach; at the same time, she wagged her tail and bumped my hand with her nose—a combination of gestures that I read as, “Please don’t touch me there, though I still want to be close to you.” Her owner spoke up, noting that she’d forgotten to tell me that Chelsea did not like to have her hindquarters touched by strangers, a detail that did not surprise me. In my experience, dogs who are fearful or anxious often do not want their hindquarters touched. Some, like Chelsea, just move their bodies out of reach; others protect themselves with growls or more. As bodywork therapists and trainers like Linda Tellington-Jones have known for a long time, emotional patterns are often correlated with physical patterns. We do this ourselves, holding the tension created by our emotional states in various places, such as our jaws, our neck and our shoulders. For fearful dogs and horses, it is quite common to see “goosiness” in the hind end. Like the classic chicken-or-the-egg scenario, it’s hard to say whether goosiness in the rear helps create the fear or the fear creates the goosiness, but in working with dogs who are fearful, teaching them to feel comfortable with having their hindquarters (in fact, their whole body) handled is an important part of the treatment program.

  Far from the original instructor’s assessment of aggression caused by “dominance” (which would more accurately describe a very confident dog using aggressive behavior to get her way), what I saw in this puppy’s behavior was a lack of confidence. Each time I asked for a little more or touched her in a new place, there was a flash of concern in her eyes and she drew back, though I did not push her to the point where she felt the need to add barking to further warn me. Her barking retreat was also a classic sign of low confidence. But the tasty tidbits quickly helped to convince her that this wasn’t so bad after all. I asked the owner to take off the leash and turn the puppy free in the training room.

  Chelsea began to cautiously explore the room, sneaking up stealthily on the box of dog toys in one corner. Her behavior was an interesting blend of curious investigation and an occasional fearful retreat when she encountered something strange, like the pile of jumps in one corner. Waiting till her attention was turned elsewhere, I quietly stood up, being sure to arm myself with more chicken. At first, the dog didn’t notice this change as she blissfully snuffled along the carpeting, eyes half closed, no doubt reading fascinating sagas of other dogs who had come before her. She was within six feet of me when she realized something had changed. Despite cur previously pleasant encounter with me sitting, I was now standing, and that changed everything. Her eyes grew wide, and she began to bark while she backed away to what she considered a safe distance.

  “Oh my God!” the worried owner gasped. I knew she was concerned that the dog might attack me. Smiling, I reassured her that everything was fine. And it was. I didn’t doubt that if at this moment I were to back the puppy into a corner or try to forcibly restrain her she might feel the need to snap t
oward me or perhaps even bite, though I suspected she’d simply try to get away. Chelsea wasn’t a little killer honing her deadly skills in preparation for an adult career as a canine terrorist. She was simply uncertain and anxious in certain situations, like those that contained strangers and odd items like a moving chair. And as the owner confirmed when I asked, this was Chelsea’s pattern of behavior in such situations: bark and retreat. Given her ever-increasing size and the pure volume of her barking, this behavior had worked rather well—at least from the clog’s point of view—to resolve scary situations. Approaching people or dogs quickly retreated in the face of such a fierce-sounding display. Backing away as far as possible left the dog feeling a little safer.

  But in the long run, this pattern of bark and retreat had not given the dog any skills for dealing with scary situations. Chelsea was not being a bad dog. She was simply using the best solution she had for coping with what she did not understand. Unfortunately, her solution had earned her the label of “aggressive,” and was one that without a caring breeder’s insistence on a second opinion might have resulted in her death at an early age. As she matured and grew more confident, bark and retreat might still be all she ever did, and it was possible she might never bite a single soul. But to underestimate the potential for serious problems would be to underestimate what happens when a dog feels he is pushed into a situation that can be handled only by fighting or fleeing.