Whose Bathroom Is It, Anyway?

The hot weather has arrived at last in southwestern Pennsylvan-ia, and Rhadwen has taken up her favorite summertime spot in the bathroom sink.

What am I supposed to do?

I wash my hands in the tub. What did you think?

It Seems to Be Working . . .

This past Thursday went to my local PetsMart and traded in the size 2 Halti collar for a size 1. I was pleasantly surprised that they took the larger one back, since Llewellyn had been slobbering over it for the past week.

But then, that's why I had to take it back-- it was too easy for him to get it into his mouth and then off entirely.

So for the past four days we've been trying the smaller one.

And it worries me. He can breathe all right in it, he can eat his dinner wearing it, he can walk for blocks at a good pace in it, he can wear it around the house for an hour or two with no sign of discomfort or distress. But gosh, it looks so small on him! Don't those things come in half sizes?

I suppose I should be glad and leave well enough alone. After all, it's doing its job keeping him from going ballistic when he sees or hears another dog on the street. That's what I want, isn't it?

Yes, but I don't want to hurt him getting it, either.

Well, we have our private lesson later today with the dog training. I'll see what she says.

Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

Early this evening Llewellyn and I walked out to take the air, he wearing his training collar.

He behaved very nicely. We went down the far end of the block, then across the street to visit with an elderly gentleman sitting on his porch. Llewellyn let the nice man pet him and tell him what a good doggie he was, and he did not pull into the open door of the house to try to find the cats he scented. He didn't try to race across the yard to tree the squirrel that cheekily crossed the street just to tease him.

We took our leave and went down to the park above the river. All was well.

But down the river road, on the other side, I could see a couple with a wee little Yorkie with them. Ah. This will show how well the Halti collar works when Llewellyn spies other dogs.

So we walked that way, still on the other side of the street.

And the answer to the burning question is . . . at this juncture, not very well. Barking and jumping in his wrath, he pawed at the collar till the muzzle strap was in his mouth. Soon, he had the muzzle strap off altogether. The Yorkie didn't say a thing, surprisingly. And his people just stood there across the street, exchanging pleasantries about dog training, while I'm thinking, "Go! go! Don't you see my dog won't calm down till you've got yours out of sight?"

But I didn't, because I have my silly pride and I don't want Llewellyn getting a reputation around the neighborhood as a mean or out-of-control dog.

After a bit they did go, and we went round the other side of the block and took a longer way home, even though it looked like rain.

I do have to give him credit. Even when he was barking and jumping, he let me put the muzzle strap back on him. I got it on without undoing the neck strap, which says "loose" to me. Maybe I need to get him the next smaller size? His muzzle's so narrow, he slides out of this one too easily.

More Progress

I ventured outside with Llewellyn in his Halti collar late this evening.

Out in the backyard first, then through the gate and down the path to the front sidewalk. We walked up to the corner, then back past our house, and then back to the corner and home again. (Treats! treats!)

And it was miraculous. No jumping, no lunging, no crushed fingers or dislocated shoulders.

Tomorrow I'll try it in the daylight. We'll see how he does with distractions.

Rhadwen Takes Advantage

Being a cat, Wennie has an eye to the main chance. She knows when something is up, and if she can get in on the bargain, she drives it home with all her might. That is, if she feels like it.

In this case, she knows Llewellyn is being trained. She knows he doesn't get his breakfast or his dinner unless he sits and stays while I go across the room and fill up his bowl. I have to set the bowl down on the table to put the lid back on the dog food tin. And that's where Rhadwen siezes her advantage.

Up she jumps on the table, and she's got her face in the dog's dish, chomping away, before I can get the lid centered on the can.

(Now, Llewellyn does get his turn at this game. Rhadwen gets fed on top of a bookcase, to keep the dog out of her food. And he's figured out how to tease her so badly that she knocks the dish onto the floor. Pieces of kibble go flying, and guess who gets the most of it?

(And what the dog doesn't gobble up goes down the register.)

But now Wennie has found a new way to get her own back. Tonight I tried leading Llewellyn around the house with his leash attached to his Halti collar, around and around from kitchen to hall to front room to living room to dining room to kitchen and around again. Rhadwen figured out that if she sat on a certain dining room chair, she was in the perfect position to whap him with her claws every time he came around. She obviously knew he was under restraint and couldn't hit back!

If you're wondering why I didn't stop this feline agression, it's because Llewellyn never seemed to feel it. I wonder if that's because his coat is so thick. Or was Rhadwen only playing, and thought he should know what she could do if she really wanted to?

Making Progress

Here's Llewellyn wearing his new training collar. He's still not thrilled with it, but at least he kept it on for about ten minutes without excessive histrionics. For awhile he even forgot he was wearing it-- when his sister Rhadwen was kakking a hairball and most of her breakfast on the mantlepiece. "Kin I have some a' dat? Smells gooood! "

Using the dry Three Dog Bakery training treats instead of the smoked sausage kept the excitement level down a notch. He loves them, indeed he does; he scarfs them down whole. But the aroma isn't quite so mesmerizingly distracting.

Maybe before tomorrow's sessions I'll actually review the instructions that came with the Halti collar, and we'll make even more progress. Day after I bought the thing, already I'd forgotten where in the house they were. Turned out, they were in the package the collar came in. Where they belonged. Right where I'd put them. Of course!

Meanwhile, Rhadwen

Today was Wennie's first time out in the yard since last Fall. It's not that it's been cold here lately, just that I've had one lately.

(Well, bronchial infection, actually.)

She chased the dog, let the dog chase her, sat on the cobblestone garden path in the sun while that suited her, retreated into the shade of a hosta when it no longer did, and generally had a good time. And of course when I wasn't looking she reprised her classic bit of leaping onto the top of the compost bin, up to the top of the board fence, over to the dining room window sill, and thence to the ground and freedom! freeeeeedommmmm!

Which in this case meant under the next door neighbors' spirea bush. Llewellyn had something to say about it when I brought her back into the house, but as I reminded him, it's really none of his business.

I did let her back out, though, and she took her leisure on the back porch, reminding everyone who the real queen of this household is.

Early Days Yet

My dog Llewellyn is very strange. He can't or won't walk on a leash worth a darn. But every time I open the drawer in the little stand by the front door, the one with his leash in it, he leaps and whirls like a small tornado. "We get to go out?! O bliss! O ecstasy! We're going out!"

I find now that it's much the same with his new Halti collar. I get it out to train him on it, and you'd think he was being invited to the canine version of Disney World.

But put it on him? He's pawing, mouthing, doing everything he can to get it off. "I don' wan' this thing on me!! Take it off! Now!"

The dog trainer said only leave it on him a minute or so in the early stages, so that's what I'm doing. But as soon I take it off and he can see it in my hand again, there he goes jumping and dancing, doggie mouth grinning with glee, Mr. Excitement thinking it means something Wonderful is about to happen.

Maybe it's the pieces of smoked sausage I'm using to reward him for trying the new collar. Maybe they inspire just a bit too much rapture.

We'll keep on working on it. He needs to get used to that collar. There's no reason why he shouldn't-- After all, it's early days yet.

Oh, Darn

I took Llewellyn to dog class for the first time this evening, and he got kicked out.

Yes, he did.

Not that I wasn't expecting it. I've never been able to walk him on a leash since I adopted him from the Humane Society a year ago. It was bad enough, the way he'd pull when he was merely excited and unruly. But when he'd see another dog-- Katy, bar the door!

But Katy couldn't bar the door. Katy could barely keep her 45-pound mutt from crushing her hand in the loop of the leash. Katy could foresee shoulder and back trouble that would handsomely fund her chiropractor's retirement.

So home we would go. And Llewellyn would instead assert his canine manhood (regardless of the vet's knife!) standing at the front window, hackles raised, every muscle at attention, baying forth with every startling decibel of his Beagle heritage, driving away all turf invaders from the top of the next block up to the bottom of the next block down.

The Lady Across the Street tends to object to this behavior. She objected to it all last summer. Heck, I object to it! So when the time rolled around, I enrolled Llewellyn in dog training class. The class meets in a nearby county park, I'd have him out in the fresh air, he could meet other mutts, he could get socialized, we'd get over the silly turf-defending attitudes, I could finally take him for nice walks around the neighborhood, and all would be well.

Not!

We were half hour late-- traffic and tire trouble-- but it was just as well. When we drove in and he saw the other dogs, Llewellyn lifted up his voice and began to protest at the offense of it all. I left him in the car till Rachel the instructor said I might bring him out to meet the other pupils. My beast immediately went for the nearest, jumping, growling and snapping at a Golden Retriever, who was ready to give as good as he got. The Golden's master pulled him away before any blood was drawn, and my boy nearly dragged me across the grass on my knees trying to chase his rival away.

"Take him around over there and walk him," said Rachel, thinking maybe Llewellyn just needed some time to settle down. So I retreated to the far side of the picnic shelter, where he frantically put a few more kinks in my shoulder. But the other dogs were safe-- until a Chocolate Lab, heedlessly towing a mite of a child about six years old, broke ranks from the class and lollupped over to investigate.

It didn't need the instructor's directive to tell me it was time to put my mutt in the car. Where he continued to lunge and bark and spray foam all over the interior, until class was over with the other canines safely in their vehicles and driven away.

No, my boy ain't getting socialized in this class! Not with that kind of attitude.

Rachel was very nice. She calls Llewellyn a "reactive" dog. Sounds so much nicer than "aggressive," doesn't it? And considering how amiable he is with people and cats, I suppose "reactive" is the word.

But it still means going to Plan B. The expensive option, of course! The five remaining weeks' worth of group training fee will go towards an hour of private instruction. We'll meet again in a week or so and she'll bring her very docile secondhand Greyhound and we'll see how Llewellyn gets on.

Meanwhile, I've bought him a Halti training collar and have begun to get him used to it. Lots and lots of smoked sausage treats! He's a smart dog-- I think he'll decide it's a good thing very soon.

On the other hand, the "silent" dog whistle I also bought tonight at the PetsMart, the one I was planning to blow whenever he explodes me out of a sound sleep with his confounded barking, the one that would keep him from hearing my voice and thinking he was getting any attention-- that does not seem to be a success. In three words, it's not silent.