The Dog Listener

by Jan Fennell

  As for playtime itself, one of the golden rules I emphasise is that an owner should never get into a tugging contest with a dog. There are two very good reasons for this. Firstly, it allows the dog to dictate the rules of the game. Secondly, and potentially even more dangerous, there is a danger the dog may sense its physical superiority over an owner. And if it begins to believe it is stronger than its leader, it will begin to reassess whether the leadership should rest with its human companion any longer.

  I frequently use playtime to practise and top up some of the key disciplines with my dogs. Skills like the recall and coming to heel need regular refreshing. By moving away from my dogs when they retrieve and return to me with a ball, I encourage them to come to me. They want the game to continue. They know that for it to do so, the ball must be back in my hands; they want to carry on playing, so behave in a way that ensures this happens.

  I have been asked to deal with all manner of problems in this area. None was quite as interesting as that of Benji, a lovely ‘Westie’ or West Highland terrier. Benji had a unique problem. His owner, Mavis, called to tell me he was behaving very oddly whenever she brought out a new squeaky ball. Benji had always enjoyed his playtime, and enjoyed playing with squeaky balls in particular. The sight of this new ball would transform him, however. Sure enough when I visited Mavis, I saw the reaction first hand. He lay down, placed his head on the floor and just trembled.

  It did not take me long to work out what the problem was. Mavis told me that Benji had always punctured any squeaking toy within minutes of being given it. This larger one had remained intact, however, because he had not been able to get his jaws around it. Terriers in particular are known for their abilities as rat catchers. I suspected that Benji’s habit of puncturing balls so that they could no longer squeak was connected to this. He had, in effect, failed to kill the King Rat that was his giant ball. This had left him feeling terrified.

  I knelt down next to Benji and, making sure he saw what I was doing, drove a screwdriver into the ball. He watched attentively as I made sure all the air had been expelled and the squeaking noise eliminated. His reaction was unbelievable. The second the squeaking had been removed, Benji grabbed the ball, tossed it off the ground and started leaping in the air with it. His ears were up, his whole body was trembling again, but this time with excitement. His mortal enemy was no more. When I threw the ball to him again, he ran around with it triumphantly. It remained his favourite toy for months afterwards.

  Chapter 24

  ‘How’ve Ya Done That, Lady?’

  Since first developing my ideas, I have become more and more secure in my belief that man and dog form a unique relationship. Each time I see a newspaper or scientific magazine produce new evidence to support this, I feel more positive that the powerful means of communicating I use is somehow reconnecting us with our past.

  The more I work with different breeds and particular problems, the more my ideas have unified around the method I have outlined in the previous pages of this book. It is, much like our relationship with the dog, an ever-evolving process. People often refer to me as an expert. I always reply the same way: it is the dog that is the expert, I am only someone who has learned to listen to it and now feels ready to share what I have heard with others.

  As I have done so, I hope I have helped many people learn to train and live with their pets in a compassionate way. There have, inevitably, been instances when my efforts have not been sufficient. Ultimately, it is up to every individual owner to put the principles of my method into operation: it is not a quick fix to be forgotten, it is a way of living with their pet. A few – fortunately very few – owners have failed to grasp this and their dogs have suffered the consequences.

  In the vast majority of cases, however, I have been able to help. And as my method has gained more credence, I have found myself being able to help in increasingly emotive situations. I have on a number of occasions now been asked to intervene in the cases of dogs facing the legal threat of destruction. One such case was that of Dylan, an Akita.

  Dylan’s owner was a saleswoman called Helen. As she travelled the length and breadth of the country, Helen took Dylan with her. He acted as companion-cum-protector. And, given the fearsome power of the Akita breed, he fulfilled the second role with ease. Unfortunately his protective streak proved too powerful.

  One day Helen was loading some shopping into the boot of her car in the car park of her local supermarket when she was approached by an acquaintance. The door of the car was opened. As Dylan saw the lady extend her hand to Helen, he leapt into action. The wounds to the lady’s arm were so severe she needed hospitalisation and many stitches. The attack was so severe, the police were involved and Dylan and Helen were prosecuted under the Dangerous Dogs Act. A judge was to decide whether Dylan was to be destroyed or not.

  Helen contacted me via her solicitors. She did so for two reasons. Firstly, of course, she wanted if possible to save her dog. But more importantly she was determined to find out why her dog had done this. Of course, the two things were linked. If she could solve the riddle and change the dog’s ways then the court might look on it more sympathetically.

  Her amazement was obvious when she first called me. ‘I don’t understand why he did it,’ she kept saying to me, ‘he is so lovable.’ As ever, Helen was unaware of the other symptoms Dylan had been displaying. When I asked whether he had been following her around the house, whether he became agitated when visitors came and whether he tended to protect her, she replied yes in every instance.

  I told Helen she must be absolutely diligent in using my method; the dangers of applying it inconsistently had been proven by the case of another Akita I had dealt with. Despite my requests, the owner in that instance had not applied my signals consistently and the dog could not improve. When he bit again, although the courts were not involved this time, he had to be destroyed nevertheless. His owners were understandably devastated.

  Helen had two months or so before the court was to decide Dylan’s fate. At the end of this time I would have to submit a detailed evaluation of Dylan and his behaviour to the court. His fate rested on us changing his behaviour in this time.

  That Dylan believed himself a leader was clear. As usual, I had to treat him holistically, removing that leadership from him using the whole repertoire of signals within the Amichien Bonding technique. In this particular case, however, I had to focus closely on moments of perceived danger. This had been when the attack had occurred. Only by teaching Dylan how to behave in this situation could I hope to save him.

  It was not hard to see why Dylan had decided to be protective. Around the house, he and Helen were inseparable. His status was underlined by the fact that she allowed him to rush to the door, pull on the lead and insist on cuddles whenever he wanted. When Helen started using Amichien Bonding, Dylan began to look at her in a completely different light, seeing that it was now Helen who was the decision maker and protector. It was no longer his function to look after the pack.

  A week or so before the court case, I wrote my report. I did not believe Dylan was a threat any longer. My words to the judge were this: Dylan’s owner realised she had been giving her dog the wrong signals, she now knew the correct signals, she would never allow the dog to be put in that sort of confrontational situation again. The magistrate was, of course, at liberty to ignore it. But it was my opinion that Dylan’s behaviour had been cured.

  I always feel a sense of protectiveness towards the dogs I work with, sometimes too much I think. I must admit I lost the odd hour’s sleep wondering how Helen and Dylan were going to fare. On the morning of the hearing, Helen rang me from the courtroom. She was close to tears and could only get out two words before breaking down. ‘He’s safe,’ she said.

  The magistrate had taken ten minutes to evaluate the case, then placed a controlling order on Dylan. It meant that she could keep him. Provided he did not attack anyone again, they could carry on their life together. I have now been involved in fi
ve such cases, and I am pleased to say that in each of them I have helped save the dog’s life.

  People have often labelled me a Pollyanna; they say I am too quick to see the good in others, to view every experience from the positive perspective as an opportunity to learn. I won’t deny it – I do believe in treating life as a glass half full rather than a glass half empty. It was ironic then that, when my method proved itself in rather dramatic circumstances one day in 1998, I was the last to see it as a positive experience.

  On a warm summer’s evening, I had taken my pack of dogs out for a walk at a favourite beauty spot in the Lincolnshire countryside. I had loaded them into the car and headed for a footpath that ran alongside a pretty little stream. As we walked together, I vividly remember thinking what a wonderful evening it was. The sun was blazing low in the west, the birds were singing and there was a lovely light breeze brushing itself against my face. The dogs weren’t complaining either; they were freely running around, splashing in and out of the water. Life seemed pretty perfect in all honesty.

  It was as we walked on that the idyll turned into a nightmare. The dogs had, as they often do, got ahead of me, which was perfectly all right as I knew they would all come back if I called them. For a brief moment, they disappeared from view around a right-handed bend in the path, when I heard a sudden scream. As I ran towards the sound, I almost tripped over Molly, one of the spaniels, who was rolling in front of me, crying and snapping frantically. As I looked ahead, I saw the rest of the dogs maniacally barking and jumping around as well. It took me only a second to realise what was wrong. Ahead of me was a row of beehives. The dogs were being attacked by swarm after swarm of their inhabitants.

  For the next few seconds, everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. As I struggled to gather my senses I found myself under attack as well. It was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. I cannot really explain the fear I was feeling. With the bees swarming all around my face, I could not see ahead of me. My ears were filled with the sounds of the buzzing around me and my dogs yelping and screaming in agony somewhere ahead of me.

  I reacted instinctively and began moving as fast as I could towards the car, parked around six hundred yards away. It was horribly slow progress. I tried waving my arms to little avail. I then started thrashing the air with my dogs’ light rope leads which I had around my neck. To be honest I was oblivious to the stings that were raining down on my head, neck and hands. I just pressed on as best as I could, falling over regularly as I did so. Six hundred yards have never seemed so far.

  Eventually I managed to get to the car. My hands were shaking so badly it seemed to take an eternity to get the key in the lock. I firstly opened the boot door and beckoned the dogs in. I then jumped into the driving seat, started up the engine and opened the windows and sunroof so that the bees could escape. The dogs were all inside in what seemed like an instant. I then hit the accelerator as hard as I could and roared off. To my amazement, the bees outside stuck with us for more than a mile down the narrow lane. Eventually, however, we got to the open road and outran them.

  I can’t really remember the journey home. Back at the house, I got the dogs inside and began to assess the damage. Barmie had got off lightest, perhaps because he is so low to the ground. The spaniels, Molly and Spike Milligan, had been stung but only intermittently from what I could see. Their floppy, furry ears had protected their faces, although both had been stung quite badly on the lips. Ironically it was the biggest and most powerful of my dogs, the shepherds, that had fared worst.

  The worst was Chaser, the six-month-old son of Sadie. I saw that his right eye was closed completely. The swollen eyelid was a fiery red. When I called the vet, he agreed I should bring him to the surgery immediately. The other dogs were shaken but safe, so I felt able to leave them at home while I dealt with the worst victim.

  At the surgery we were treated by one of our regular vets, Simon. He took one look at Chaser and gave him an antihistamine injection, checking him again for any more stings. With the treatment over, I was able to relax for the first time in an hour. I think it was only then, as my adrenaline levels began to drop, that I began to be aware of the throbbing pain in my head and the various stings I had picked up on my face, neck and hands: I must have looked a dreadful sight. I was feeling pretty sorry for myself; the experience had been one of the most traumatic I had ever encountered. Seeing my dogs in such distress was something I never wanted to repeat. It was only when Simon started asking me about the ordeal that I realised the significance of what had happened.

  Simon knew me and my dogs well and asked me to explain what had happened. I ran through the story and he was horrified. ‘How long did it take you to find all the dogs and gather them together again?’ he asked me. ‘They must have been scattered for miles around.’ Only then did it dawn on me that in the midst of all that pain and chaos, my dogs had stuck by my side. I had not had time to even register the fact at the time. I had taken it for granted that they would be with me when I opened the door and so they were.

  It was on the drive back to the house that the reality hit me. Despite the fact that they were faster runners, that they had the option of running in any direction they pleased and that they were in extreme distress, my dogs had stuck with me. They had trusted me to get them safely out of the situation. They had proved my method worked in the most testing circumstances imaginable. That evening, back at home, I sat on the floor making an extra fuss of all my dogs at dinner time. I sat there for a while afterwards, laughing as the tears ran down my face.

  Perhaps the most satisfying aspect of my work has been the manner in which it has taken me in new and interesting directions in my life. In the autumn of 1998, for instance, I was asked to become a reporter for my local BBC Radio station, BBC Humberside. I had been a regular guest on a phone-in programme on the station for four years, answering callers’ queries about dogs and their delinquent ways. The editors there seemed to be pleased with the response and invited me to do more work. The first piece was a diary of a day at Cruft’s and proved popular enough for me to be asked to do a second piece. I must admit I was lost for words when they asked me whether I’d like to do an in-depth interview with none other than Monty Roberts.

  By now the success of his book on his experiences, The Man Who Listens to Horses, had made Monty a worldwide celebrity. The success of the Robert Redford film The Horse Whisperer had added to the fascination with his unique, humane way of working with animals. It turned out Monty had returned to Britain and was staging a demonstration near the town of Market Rasen. He had agreed to talk to the radio station.

  In the years since I first encountered him, I had seen Monty at work on around twenty horses. Each time, my respect for his work deepened. Each time, my certainty that man is capable of communicating with other species strengthened. I am not a trained journalist, so while part of me was thrilled at the prospect of seeing Monty at work again, part of me was petrified at the prospect of conducting an interview. I travelled down to Market Rasen with a blend of excitement and trepidation.

  At the event, I met and spoke with Monty’s regular associate in England, Kelly Marks. I was flattered in the extreme when Kelly, a former jockey who has become one of Monty’s most-trusted proteges, said she had heard of me and my work. I was utterly flabbergasted, however, when she then turned to Monty and said: ‘Hey, this is Jan Fennell.’ Monty was the same genial, unlikely-looking cowboy I had first cast eyes on years earlier. He came over smiling warmly. ‘What’s this I hear about you adapting my method for dogs?’ he asked. ‘How’ve ya done that, lady?’ I replied: ‘I listened to them!’ and he laughed.

  We chatted briefly before getting on with our radio interview, one of a few he was doing that day. To my delight, Monty then asked me to stay with him while he chose the horses he planned to use for his demonstration that night. It was all useful material for my radio piece, and I was delighted to accept. At the end of the afternoon, Monty asked me whether I pl
anned to come back for the evening’s demonstration. When I replied that I did, he asked me to come and say hello to him then. ‘Maybe we can do something together,’ he said as we parted company.

  To be honest I thought nothing more of his comment. I had enough to do making sure the interview was fine and getting home in time to see to my dogs, get changed and back to the event that evening. It was only when I got back to Market Rasen and saw Kelly again that it began to dawn on me that something was afoot. By now the stands were filling up. Such was Monty’s drawing power, the one thousand tickets had been sold out weeks earlier. Kelly asked me to join her in the middle of the arena next to Monty’s round pen. I must admit I sought out the least conspicuous spot but, even then, felt terribly self-conscious.

  Monty carried out his usual fascinating show. He went through two half-hour demonstrations, the first, ‘starting a baby’, in which he saddled a horse never before ridden, the second in which he tackled a horse with a habit of kicking out at people. It was as the second half of the show began that I realised what Kelly and Monty had planned. As Monty walked back, Kelly ushered me into the famous round pen with her. When I hesitated for a second, Monty grinned and beckoned me in, coaxing me like some reluctant mustang he had just begun coaching. Before I knew it, Kelly was introducing me to the audience.

  She made a brief speech in which she explained that Monty’s method had been the inspiration for a number of other trainers. In the years since he had made his ideas public, he had been constantly surprised by the work these people had done. Kelly admitted that neither she nor Monty had been more surprised than when they heard of the work being done with dogs by an Englishwoman. I was, in truth, turning bright red with embarrassment at this point. Before I knew it, however, Kelly was bringing her speech to an end, telling the audience that I was about to explain my work and handing me the microphone. At first my heart was in my throat. Somehow I composed myself and began talking to the packed stands around me. I explained how seeing Monty had changed my life and how the remarkable results they had just witnessed with horses were also possible with dogs. It was only afterwards, when people seemed to have understood what I had said, that I realised how fully formed my ideas had now become.