Close Calls

When I was on restricted activity post-op, I arranged for the neighbors down the street to come and feed the animals and especially, to take Llewellyn out to the alley to do his business. If I had him properly leash trained I could've done it myself early on, but noooo, he's still tugging and pulling at the best of times. And if he sees another dog, it's Katie, bar the door! Definitely in the category of Heavy Lifting.

But about two weeks before I was cleared for regular activity, the teenaged kid from the family that was helping me told me they couldn't find my house key. For a few days, he'd ring the bell morning and afternoon, I'd let him in, and he'd take the dog out. And late at night, at bedtime, I could take Llewellyn out off-leash, since nobody walks their dog in the alley at that hour.

But gradually, none of my helpers from down the block came at all. It was up to me. Whattodo, whattodo . . . ? Ah. Midnight trip, as before. Daylight potty breaks, I let Llewellyn run down to the back gate and I'd get him secured when I got there. Then, "Sit!" He sits. I put the leash on him. "Wait!" He waits. I open the back gate, carefully, carefully . . . I stick my head out, and sweep the scene, up and down the alley. No dogs. "OK!" And out we'd come, Llewellyn would do his business on a relaxed leash, and I wouldn't get my stitches pulled and he wouldn't be menacing other people's pets.

This worked so well, that last week, I got careless. I didn't take the time I should've to make sure the coast was clear. And for three straight mornings, at different times each day, I just missed letting my fear-agressive mutt into the alley right in the path of a neighbor and his little brown dachshund!

I do not know how Llewellyn didn't nose that dog and go off after him, but I guess he had other business to attend to.

Unless . . . ?

Not sure when it was, last Friday or Saturday, but we were out there so he could do his business. And a couple houses down the alley, two young guys I didn't know were standing by a car, I guess waiting for their friend to get home. Then I heard a jingling as of dogtags, and yes, they had a little mutt on a leash, right where Llewellyn could see him. And Llewellyn did see him. And did nothing, except finish his business.

Then yesterday, the neighborhood children were out in force, accompanied by the big Dobie owned by the family on the corner. Vader, who is always off-leash, lay down in the next-door neighbors' yard, not twenty feet from my front entrance. Where the door was open. And Llewellyn was sitting right behind the screen. Did he go crazy? No, he didn't. In fact, the kindergartners and I did some training with some doggie treats I brought out. Llewellyn got treats for sitting nicely behind the door and not barking at Vader, and Vader got treats for chilling out and not coming any farther into Llewellyn's territory.

All seemed well. Until the one preschooler in the group ran into my house to get something, and let the door hang open when she came back out. And out Llewellyn came with her, starting down the front steps, with the child's pet Doberman just a long leap away.

But . . . Llewellyn wasn't running, or barking, or attacking. He was just ambling out, enjoying the fun, wanting to be outside with all the kids who like to pet him and spoil him rotten. Had to spoil his fun, of course. "Llewellyn, back in the house. Now."

He went. Dare I say he might be getting an eensie bit more dog-socialized? If so, I wish I knew what we were doing right. I hate having to be so careful of him now-- and I know he'd love it if he could get over his fear and get out and play and frolic with other dogs.

Swim or Sink, Barking Division

Day before yesterday, the new people moved into the house on the corner, two doors down from the House of the Flying Furballs.

They have a large Doberman named Vader, who does not wear a helmet or have breathing issues.

What he does have is good off-leash discipline, and his people, the past couple of days, have allowed him to lie out on their front lawn while they're with him.

This drives my Llewellyn nuts. Not only is there a new interloping canine in the neighborhood, said interloper doesn't have the grace to run away (i.e., keep going by on leash) when he barks at it. No, this new mutt just lies there and ignores him.

Must need to bark all the louder and longer:

BARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARK!!!!!

Hey, that didn't work! Other dog is still there! And now he's walking around with people petting him! Try again:

BARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARK!!!!!

Oh good grief, you could hear my mutt up and down the block. Ferociously. Constantly. Not something any of us can tolerate, especially not me with my nerves.

So I'm trying something. It's the basic carrot and stick approach. If Llewellyn can look at the screen door at Vader and keep his yap shut, he gets a treat and high praise for being a "Good, quiet dog!"

If I catch him barking or even growling at the Dobie, he gets a water squirt from the spray bottle and a "Naughty noise!"

We'll see how this works. The advent of this new dog may be an inadvertent blessing-- or the beginning of tumult and misery for one and all.

Sometimes I Scares Meself

Over the course of a misspent animal-owning life, I've come to under- stand that you get better coöpera- tion with quiet determination than with shouting and yelling and leaping about.

I do not say Llewellyn is qualified for a Canine Good Citizen Award. He still barks when a squirrel crosses a lawn halfway down the block and his antipathy towards other dogs is still ferocious and unabated. Nor do I claim to have a troupe of kittehs ready to tour with the circus. I mean, cats is cats.

But sometimes lately it seems I'm communicating with the critters in ways that are too subtle even for me. It works but it doesn't seem canny that it works.

Llewellyn can be in the front room, barking his fool head off, and I can come to the head of the stairs and just fix my eyes on him, thinking, "Llewellyn, no-noise. Quiet dog. Hush." And presently he looks up at me, gives one more yelp, and shuts down the cacophony.

Then there's our new ritual at the back door. He likes to lord it over the cats, nipping them in and herding them whenever he thinks they're out of line. Especially annoying has been his habit of worrying at Rhadwen when she comes in the house. It isn't fair on her and it's tedious for me, since often that means she runs back outside when I need her in.

Now, Llewellyn and I have been working on the Sit! Wait! at the back door when we come in together. But I've lately been taking it to a new level. I'll get the dog into the Wait position, then call Rhadwen from her favourite corner in the back porch. "Wennie, it's time to come in the house!" She continues to lie there for a moment, while Llewellyn holds his Sit. "Wennie, come in the house," I say again, calmly. Then just stand there silently, looking at her, waiting, willing her to come towards me. She gets up and begins to move towards the door. "Good girl!" I say. "Come on!" And wonder of wonders, the dog continues to sit and does not mistake what I'm saying to her for the go-ahead for him to go in. Rhadwen approaches at a dignified pace, passes between me and her brother the dog--and he lets her alone. She goes in the house, I cross the threshold myself, and then tell Llewellyn, "OK!" and in he trots.

This should not work. Especially not with a dog and a cat together. There's just too much pure force of mind to it, and I am not a strongminded individual.

Probably just coincidence. It might get scary otherwise.

A Well-Trained Dog

My dog Llewellyn amazes me by how smart he is.

I don't say that because he's my dog. I say it because he sometimes behaves better and more cleverly than even I've trained him to.

There's his practice lately of not letting me lie down and sleep on the carpet. I only do it when I'm in my study late at night waiting for things to download . . . well, usually . . . and once when I was dizzy. Anyway, I try to lie down and he forces his body under me and makes me get up.

But there's something else. Often Llewellyn will be lying or standing or moseying right in my path, right where I want to go. I command, "Llewellyn, move!" expecting him to proceed ahead of me out of the room or down the stairs, wherever I'm going. But instead he just moves to the side, more and more he's just moving to the side.

This was annoying. Didn't he know what I wanted? "Llewellyn, get going! Move!!"

And he moves. Not ahead, aside. Then falls in behind me to follow me as I pass through the door or set foot on the steps.

After that, he'll run on ahead, but not until.

And a day or two ago, it dawned on me: He's acknowledging my authority. He's taking his proper doggy place in my wake. I read something in a book by veterinarian Dr. Nicholas Dodson, Dogs Behaving Badly, where he says that "Access along corridors and across thresholds is so important to would-be leaders that these zones are typical testing grounds for dominance." And somewhere along the line, my dog has got me placed as his leader, and he's not going to let me forget it.

Now if he'd only mind and shut up when he starts up barking out the window first thing in the morning!

Llewellyn Has Missed His Calling?

Late this morning, I was out back with Llewellyn. Well, I was on the back porch and he was bounding around the yard, nosing here, sniffing there. Suddenly something on the ground took his fancy. Oh, hey, guess he was eating spent rose of Sharon blooms again.

But as he picked up whatever it was and ran off, I noticed it was too big to be one of those. Whatever this was was large enough to dangle from his jaws.

"Llewellyn, come!" And he came, bringing his new toy-- a recently-dead chipmunk.

Which I immediately told him to drop.

And he did.

He wanted to come back and get it, but I told him No, get in the house.

And he did.

Which is what I call good retriever dog behavior. But since I don't plan to take up small game hunting any time soon, it looks like his efforts are wasted.

Glad I got him to drop it, though. I don't think he'd killed it; there was no blood. The poor chipmunk was probably diseased: not what I call a good snack for a dog's elevenses. A few years back my late dog Maddie once ate a dead bird or something in my sister's back yard, and I had to take her to the emergency vet's from the ensuing infection.

(She had to get sick on Memorial Day, of course.)

We dodged that bullet today, and Llewellyn got lots of doggie treats for being so obedient. Good dog! Very good dog!

Pushing It!

Life has been very exciting around here lately. Exploratory trips into the attic storage space. A live Christmas tree brought into the house and put up. Strange boxes full of long stringy things with shiny bits on them, perfect for cats and kittens to rummage through. Batch after batch of chocolate candy and cookies and buttery bread issuing from the kitchen. A big pot of chicken stock simmering, simmering on the stove. Odd green and red things hung all over various surfaces. Felines racing up and down the stairs in exuberance and glee.

It can be a lot for a self-respecting dog to deal with. It's prone to get his canine mind a mite addled. Make him forget his sense of timing and appropriate behavior.

So I couldn't really blame Llewellyn when he lifted his leg in the upstairs hall yesterday, only four or five hours after he'd been out to do his business. The excitement just got to him, that's all.

But this evening, he went too far.

This evening, Christmas Eve, things were quiet. I was standing at the stove, nursing a sauce through a very delicate stage, when I noticed Llewellyn sit down in the corner by the back door. He wasn't quite settled there waiting or signalling: it was more like he was going through the motions to see if he could get my attention.

He did, but that didn't oblige me to act on it. I'd taken him out to the alley barely three hours before. He could jolly well wait. The sauce I was making could not.

Whereupon he casually rose, walked over to the refrigerator, and lifted his leg and did a wee right there on the kitchen floor!

Guess again, doggo! It's into the crate with you, and if you wet it, that's your problem!

I finished the sauce and cleaned up the mess, in that order. Fortunately, the cats had no interest in either.

And then I took Llewellyn out the back.

Was I being mean? I don't think so. He can hold his water when he wants to.

Unless it should turn out there's something wrong with him? And he needs to go to the vet?

Guilt!!!!

Or does a certain mutt simply need a gentle but firm refresher course in just who is alpha in this household?

I'll see what develops after the holidays.

Good Dog!

I confess it: I haven't done any systematic training with my dog Llewellyn since that abortive attempt at dog class last spring. The one where he dragged me through the grass trying to get his fangs into the neck of another owner's dog.

No, everything I do in the training line is casual: Sometimes making him sit before I put down his food bowl. Telling him "Naughty!" when he swipes stuff off the counter or gets too pushy with the cats. Putting him into a Stay while I go down the basement to fetch something, hoping to goodness he obeys and doesn't swipe anything off the counter. That sort of thing.

But nothing so far has broken him of the habit of flinging himself at the back door whenever he believes he just might get to go out. Nothing could ever curb his enthusiasm, or prevent him from taking flying leaps worthy of Barishnikov in his prime.

Until now.

The last couple of days, I've noticed that when it comes time for him to want to go out back and do his business, Llewellyn has been sitting down calmly in the corner next to the back door. Where he looks at me like, "OK, get the leash, I'm ready to go!" And stays sitting until I get the leash on him and we're out the door.

How on earth did he teach himself that? Because I certainly didn't!

Amazing.

Good dog!

Resistance Is Futile

Two weeks ago I gave Rhadwen her Triennial Cat Bath. Here's this big calico kitty with all her claws, known for scratching some people's eyes out** and sending others to the emergency room (see link to her MeanKitty profile, to the right in the Virtual Tie-Out List). And she sat there in the bathtub with me hardly holding her, submitting to the indignity of being soaked wet and bathed.

How could this be?

Oh, yeah, I remember. She started getting baths back when she was a tiny kitten and came to me with fleas. She figured out early there's no point in fighting the Dreaded Bath: just endure it and get it over with.

Gwenith and Huw don't have fleas. They weren't particularly dirty. (Gwenith got a bath from Hannah* after she was recovered from the floor cavity of Hannah and Steve's* new house.) But both kittens need to learn the same lesson their big sister did eight years ago.

So I bathed them both this afternoon. Gwenith actually fought more-- maybe because she knew what was coming!

They survived, and they're sleeker and fluffier for the exercise.

And hopefully, when they're great big grownup kittehs and they get dirty and need to be bathed, they'll go peaceably to their doom. Because at bathtime, Resistance Is Futile.

_________________________________
*Made-up names
**Mine, practically, when trying to jump out of my arms to chase some neighborhood cats

Enough Already!

I'm nervous.

I've got family coming to stay this weekend, and by then I've got to train my dog Llewellyn not to bark for no reason during the night. I can hardly take it myself. How can I expect them to?

His bark is prodigious. It's a loud, resonant, astounding, baying Beagle bark. As it shatters the silence, it gives warning of an entire squadron of invading Martians, of a large pride of lions prowling the streets, of a shipload of pirates out for booty and blood-- nothing less.

But it never is anything. It's bad enough for me to be exploded out of a sound sleep three or four times a night. But what effect will it have on my parents, who are in their late 70s, early 80s? If I can't convince my mutt to keep it quiet, I may have to foot the bill for a hotel.

I've tried the technique where you distract the dog from barking by calling his name and petting him when he comes to you quietly. But I'm afraid Llewellyn thinks he's being complimented for scaring off whatever-it-is so well.

So I'm trying another tack, from another training expert. This one recommends that you rebuke the dog firmly with a one-word command (Llewellyn understands "Enough!"), then studiously and silently ignore him. My boy's a little independent, so I'm substituting glaring at him silently and pointedly.

It seems to work pretty well once I've gotten over the initial shock and remembered the magic word "Enough!" That gets his attention, and it's surprising how soon he quiets down.

"BUH-HARK!! BUH-HARK!! BARK-BARK-BARK-BARK!!!"

"Qu- huh- Enough!"

"BARK! bark!"

(Glaring look.)

"Bark. Bark?"

(Further glaring look.)

"Ruff. Ruff. Uh . . . ?"

(Glaring look maintained, while trying not to laugh out loud.)

This is working well enough, when the lights are on and we can see each other. But at night in the dark . . .

The training manual says to have a squirt gun handy for just such occasions. And wasn't I at Big Lots this afternoon? Didn't I forget to see if they had any water pistols?

Five more nights we have to solve this problem. I don't want to be calling the EMTs because my dog has given my parents heart attacks.

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!

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.