"I thought we weren't supposed to bring our dog," whispers Asherel.
"We weren't," I croak, "I asked three times. This is just to orient us. The dogs are supposed to come next week."
Nonetheless, everyone else apparently has brought their dog, their dog crates, and their dog ribbons. Additionally, everyone else seems to know each other. Every dog there poses quietly by its owner, ignoring the throngs of other dogs and people. Polite happy faced dogs with wagging tails and winning dispositions.
No one is saying, “Stop, please don't approach or my dog might bite you." Nor are the dogs suddenly stiffening, straightening their tails, frightening small children. The people look confident; the leashes hang slack. They don't have darting eyes, and are not nervously biting their nails and seeking a quiet spot where the dog will be less likely to eviscerate prey.
In short, they look exactly what we do not. We alone are frauds and outcasts.
There are signs everywhere of the many different classes. My heart is a plummeting stone when we notice that the beginner class line has the same sort of confident, miraculously obedient, nice dogs that the advanced class line has. We are imposters, only allowed to enter because no one has as yet seen our dog, I obsess miserably. Asherel looks similarly disheartened. We walk glumly over to the Rally Novice sign. A lady with a Cardigan Welsh corgi stands in line. The dog looks up at us with cheerful, friendly eyes and wags his tail.
"Are you in this class?" the congenial owner asks.
"Yes," I squeak, “My daughter is."
"Where is your dog?" she questions, looking around Asherel's feet, as though maybe a very miniature schnauzer might be hiding.
"They told us not to bring her tonight," I answer.... then add, "Didn't they?"
"Oh maybe they did," she replies cheerfully, “But I am a club member. They know me. My dog is a champion, has had all but one class that would win her the CGC award."
At least that is what I think she says.... I don't know what a CGC award or any combination of letters award means in the canine world. I just know that the only award our dog could possibly be given thus far would be the B.A.D. award.
I also notice that not only are there no children under thirteen, there are no people who couldn’t do advertisements for Geritol or Ensure. If I am feeling outclassed, I cannot imagine what my eleven year old is feeling. I guess dog training is on par with sports like Shuffleboard and three wheeled bicycle races.
The nice lady is still talking, oblivious to the turmoil in my soul.
"I wanted to get in to that last class, and get him the award, but since it was full, I decided this would not be too bad. I know the other dogs in here have reached at least a basic level of obedience."
Have they, I ponder, pulling the corners of my mouth into a smile, and nodding. Of course they have. The one notable exception does not escape my iron sharp mind.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice an owner striding around the ring with a dog that is heeling, off leash, sitting when she pauses to talk to others, and then lying down when the owner settles into a long conversation.
The lady is still chattering away as I jerk my attention back to her.
"And what kind of dog is yours?" she asks.
Since Asherel has become completely mute, I answer, "Carolina Dog. At least that's what we think. We found her."
There. It is out. The gig is up. We do not have an AKC recognized breed. In fact, we do not even have a clear idea of what we have. All we know is that our dog has no ribbons, no travel crate, and is in fact likely to be booted after she attacks the first little champion she can get her teeth on. This is exactly why I hate society. I never fit in. I am a worm.
The lady smiles, “Really!" she exclaims, with evident and honest enthusiasm, “I know that breed! It is like a dingo, isn't it?"
"It is," I concede, feeling marginally better.
The class trainer arrives now, and signs in the lady with the corgi. Then he looks at us, who are trembling imperceptibly.
"You must be Asherel," he says kindly.
She nods. She has stopped speaking and is not to utter another word till we are back at the car. The trainer, Lloyd, is a nice man, a large man, just the kind of nice large men that Honeybun most likes to growl at.
Lloyd gives us our orientation papers and explains that there will be a general orientation, and then we will all meet back with him for more specifics. We head off to take a seat among the crowd of well-behaved, AKC champions.
The general orientation is thorough and well run. I learn more just sitting there listening and watching the demonstrations than we had learned in our entire first class at the other place. This is clearly the place where serious dog people come. I fear that if we remain, and our dog is not sent home with a B.A.D. cap on her head, we are in serious danger of crossing the line from dog lover to kook.
"Now some general rules about dog etiquette," pipes the announcer, "Not all dogs are friendly..."
WHAT??? This roomful of champions might admit that not all dogs are AKC perfect????
"Not all dogs like strangers...."
NO! It cannot be! There are other dogs deranged and troubled like ours?
"Please remember that. Keep your dogs on short leads. Do not let them approach other dogs. Do not approach other dogs yourself without asking. This is just common sense for your own safety, here or anywhere.”
My tension streams away as I gaze at the announcer with rapturous love. The people around me are smiling, encouraging, kindly. I feel the cocoon of their accepting warmth. They concur that dogs can be unfriendly, not like other dogs, wary of strangers. Our dog is not evil because she is cautious with others. It will be ok; it is accepted. Even this roomful of champions is willing to acknowledge this.
The general orientation is over and we head back to Lloyd. There are only three people in our class line. Most of the crowd is in obedience classes. The performance class seems less popular. With only three dogs in the class we have half a shot at keeping Honeybun under control. Lloyd enumerates what to expect and then gives us a comprehensive book on Rally Contests and terms. Asherel still doesn’t utter a sound.
The others thank him, as do I and begin to drift away.
"Asherel," he calls to our departing backs, "I only require two things. That you and your dog have fun... and smile."
Then he turns to me, “And the dogs with issues...."
Oh no, and here I am thinking these people understand….
"Usually by the third class, they melt away."
We depart, passing by a beautiful giant schnauzer, an elegant afghan with a blue ribbon that heralds "today is my birthday" around its neck, a miniature greyhound, a butterfly eared Papillion..... and waltz into the steamy day which has morphed somehow to night with a hint of fall in the breeze. It feels good, comforting, and gentle. We drive home under a sky full of stars, clustered together in the warm sparkles of each other. I wonder when people started being so accepting and so nice.
The following week, we load our little American Dingo into the van, with a pouch full of goodies that clip to Asherel's waistband. Asherel has read over the Rally rules and the myriad complicated signs. The signs are mostly big yellow arrows with instructions like "270 degree right turn", or "right u turn", or "halt, walk one step, halt walk two steps, halt walk three steps". It is like doggy ballet. Approximately twenty orange cones are set out on the floor, with numbered signs which direct the handler to the maneuver she is to perform with the dog. For novice rally-ers like us, the dog is on leash. However, if the handler tugs on the leash, she receives a one point deduction, and if she tugs on the leash three times, she is booted from the contest, asked to leave the ring, and probably required to commit hara-kiri to preserve any shred of dignity she has left. Now this sport may seem simple to the uninitiated, but Lloyd makes it quite clear that to excel in Rally and achieve Excellent Rally status, fancy footwork and complete concentration is critical. The handlers are warned the week before to bring
crates for their dogs, since Lloyd will be reviewing the footwork first, and the complexity necessitates the handler’s full attention. Every fiber of the handler's being must be focused on the footwork to correctly obey the signs. Since we don’t have a portable crate, I am unanimously voted to be Asherel's "crate". She reminds me that crates always do what they are told.... and that crates do not get cranky or angry. I remind her that very few handlers have mothers for crates, and thus she better watch how she speaks to her crate or her crate will resign.
We arrive a half hour early, so Honeybun can acclimate herself to this new and scary environment. When we arrive, only two or three dogs are there, and the building is nearly empty. We walk Honeybun in the large, adjoining field so she will not humiliate us by defecating in the building, and then we meander inside to let her sniff all the frightening corners. She notices the few people and dogs, but mostly ignores them. As more dogs and people come, Honeybun quietly sits at our side, and looks at us calmly. She doesn’t seem interested in mauling anyone, and that is encouraging. She knows Asherel has treats in the bag at her hip, and so her attention is riveted on Asherel.
Lloyd places the signs and pylons, and then directs the class to put their dogs in the crates so the handlers can focus on the footwork. Asherel hands me Honeybun's leash. I admit that I am laughing at the seriousness with which the subject of the footwork is approached. However, I am sitting on the sidelines. It is, like many things, deceptively difficult.
It is even more taxing if you are a shy eleven year old in a sea of senior citizens. Lloyd demonstrates one maneuver a few times, and then urges the handlers to try it. Asherel is frozen to the floor. I nudge her, reminding her that she should do what Lloyd suggests. She moves her feet in a halfhearted shuffle. I glare at her. This is the amazing eleven year old that I have bragged about in order to receive special dispensation to allow her in the class, and she is pulling a 'scared out of my gourd' act. Lloyd trots over.
"Did you get it?" he asks.
She nods. (Now she will be in for it, I hope)
"Show me," he implores.
Hooray for Lloyd! Asherel shuffles her feet in a circle.
"It helps the dog if you pick up your feet," he says, not unkindly, "Try again."
This time, Asherel does it with a little more vivacity. He nods and her pink cheeks move ever so imperceptibly as a smile begs to be let loose.
The next thing Lloyd shows us is how to entice a dog to go backwards. If you are like me, you are probably thinking this borders on ridiculous. To most people this may not seem like an important maneuver. However, in Rally, a dog that backs up on command is apparently useful. And everything Lloyd teaches involves giving the dog a treat for every nanosecond of obedience. This insures intense interest in doing things like walking backwards on command. To encourage a dog to go in reverse, a treat is pressed near her chest, and then she is commanded to "back up", with the treat low and just out of reach. The dog, if it is not Honeybun, will then walk backwards until fed the treat (which, by the way, Lloyd keeps calling a "cookie".) Honeybun, however, knows that if she just sits, she has no trouble snatching the treat.
Asherel practices a few times, with the same result- Honeybun sits and gobbles the unearned treat. Lloyd patiently demonstrates eliciting one backward step and then rewarding her instantly. Within a few minutes, she takes two steps backwards. She is definitely eager and attentive. This is the one advantage I see of the poor dog having nearly starved to death. She will work for food. The other class members are quite chatty and seem eager to engage with both Asherel and me. They seem to think I know what they are talking about as they chatter about various classes and proficiency levels and I am too embarrassed to admit that they may as well be speaking Japanese. Smiling and nodding, my temporal mandibular joint in my jaw aching, I am longing for a hot bath all by myself with a good book about loving one another.
Next, Lloyd brings Asherel onto the rally course. Honeybun is highly focused on the treats that Asherel has in her little treat bag, and so sticks to her owner like a remora on a shark. Asherel finishes the course and the class cheers. Despite all the competitions this group seems so conversant in, they are anxious to support this young hopeful contestant. It is not the dog-eat-dog environment one might expect. No one appears to be poisoning kibble to enhance their prospects with their own dog. Honeybun collects yet another "cookie" and wags her gluttonous tail. A classmate reaches out to pet her. I gasp, but Honeybun is gobbling cookies and doesn’t mind.
And Lloyd, who is an encourager exemplar, comments, "Did anyone notice what Asherel did that no one else did? She talked to her dog the whole time. You have to talk to your dog!"
A smile wavers on Asherel's lips and the class claps. Class ends with no mishaps, no gnawed off limbs, no mangled dogs left in our wake.
In our second class, Honeybun's demeanor begins to change. She perks up when other dogs came near, and wags her tail. She sniffs their bottoms when they aren't looking. She sits attentively when people come near and looks up, bright eyed, wagging. I realize this is not a miraculous change from suspicious scared killer dog, but a keen awareness that in this building, people carry "cookies", and not just regular "cookies" but what they refer to as "high value cookies". A dog may focus on training at home with a low value cookie, even a piece of old dogfood. But in the highly distracting show ring with dogs and people all around and a ceiling forty feet high, a low value cookie becomes a no value cookie. It is a nuclear arms race of goodies. Honeybun scoffs at our "cookies", and pays attention, riveted attention, on the lady who brings a whole grilled chicken breast as her dog's "cookie". The dogs in rally class are being fed better than my daughter.
We have no choice but to up the ante. So to the second class, we bring soft bacon/meat treats, albeit on sale at Petsmart, but definitely a cut above what we brought the first week. Asherel, per my pointed threats, tries everything Lloyd teaches with a big smile on her face. Asherel is not a naturally very smiley kind of person. She is nice and sweet, but tends toward serious and shy. We are paying too much money for her to be serious and shy at Rally class though, however, so I demand she will smile and engage, or she will need to find a new crate. Thus, while Lloyd is telling the class about the new Rally signs, the U-turn, the Sit/Stay, the 270 degree dreaded right turn..... Asherel is smiling like a crocodile. He glances at her, somewhat perplexed by the change in her demeanor. Honeybun, meanwhile, is smiling at the lady with the chicken breast.
Our class is much larger the second week. The pros had apparently stayed home the first class, because there are several new dogs that seem to actually know what they are doing at the second class. One is a very beautiful little poodle, who prances next to his owner, with his attention solidly fixed on whatever cookie she has in her pouch. I suspect it is filet mignon.
When Asherel's turn comes to do the course, Lloyd barks, "Ready?"
That is the signal in actual competition for the handler to get his dog's full attention, and stride confidently off to the course. Since every tug on the leash is a deduction, and three tugs a disqualification, a dog's undivided attention is critical in rally class.
"Ready," murmurs Asherel.
If Honeybun could have spoken, she would have said, "Not on your life, buster, until you get what that poodle owner has in her pouch."
She is gazing rapturously at the poodle owner, whom the little hussy would gladly have walked off with were she not attached to a leash. Asherel tugs the leash, and Honeybun walks grudgingly forward, still watching the poodle owner. She pays intermittent attention to Asherel, when she knows a treat is forthcoming. The rest of the time she looks beseechingly about, sniffing, because everywhere are tantalizing smells- chicken, cheese, and meatballs. When Asherel finishes the course with only about 4,756 leash tugs, thus over 1000 disqualifications, Lloyd asks what treats we have in our pouch.
"Are they hard cookies?" he scoffs, taking us for total Neanderthals.
Everyone knows hard treats have zero
value, and at the least, one has to have soft chewy morsels.
"No," Asherel replies, "They are soft."
"What are they?" he asks, unconvinced.
Now this is a little embarrassing, but truth be told, not only did we get these particular treats because they were on sale, but also we loved the name. They are called "Dingos". Kismet! Who could pass up a treat with a name like that when your dog is an American Dingo?
I can tell Lloyd has never heard of this particular "cookie".
"Have you ever tried cheese?" he asks.
He explains that while Dingos might work at home (I detect a touch of contempt in his voice), in the show ring we have to have a high value cookie that will suck every ounce of inattention out of our dog, so her “raison d’être” is to watch us closely. The poodle owner explains that she even puts the treats in her mouth, so that the dog keeps her focus on the handler's face.
Yuck, is all I can think to answer, so I keep silent.
"Here," says Lloyd, handing Asherel some string cheese, “Try this, and take her on the course again."
BOING! Honeybun's head swivels around three times as her eyes bore into Asherel's hand. I had not known she liked cheese, but there is no question she would ride the Titanic for a chance at that cheese.
"Ready?" repeats Lloyd.
"AM I EVER!!!!" woofs Honeybun, stuffing her nose in Asherel's hand.
She prances around the ring, and the leash is completely unnecessary. No way is she going to let Asherel move one millimeter away while she has that cheese in her hand. As she finishes the course, Lloyd smiles.
"That got her attention," I laugh.
Asherel is giggling. We both forget to jerk our dangerous dog away as the poodle bumps against her.
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