Category: Human-Canine Bond

Nama-Stay

Michael Baugh, CPDT-KA, CDBC

The first time I really communicated with my dog was when she was 12 weeks old. We were learning “stay.” I was standing about 20 feet away. She was sitting facing me. Our eyes were locked. I sighed. Then she sighed. There was no doubt in my mind that she wasn’t going to move until I said so.

This wasn’t some psychic connection. Though, it was really cool. She’d learned pretty quickly that good stuff happened if she stayed put. I’d praise her; slip her a treat; smile. And when the exercise was over we’d play a little. It was all good stuff. The key was starting easy and building up. We’d do short stays at first. Little by little we’d add distance, duration or distractions (The 3 D’s). When she messed up (or I messed up), we’d start over and do it again.

My training method is very old-school Learning Theory. B.F. Skinner developed it in the early 20th century and it’s worked like a charm ever since. Most sea mammal trainers use Learning Theory. And a lot of human behavior therapy has its roots in Learning Theory. The idea is simple: behavior with a favorable consequence is increased. Behavior with a unfavorable consequence is decreased. In a short time the environment or a person can trigger a behavior even when the consequence is absent.

There are tons of examples in our human lives. But let’s stick with dogs. My dog used to get treats and lots of fan fare for staying. Now, all I have to do is say “stay” and she just does it. In her case “stay” is a conditioned behavior. And interestingly enough, the science of behavior conditioning works with all animals. When I was a kid I had tropical fish in an aquarium. Every time I opened the lid of the aquarium they all swam to the top. Day after day that behavior (swimming to the top) had a positive consequence (feeding). But very quickly the conditioned behavior got locked in. They swam to the top every time I opened the lid regardless of whether or not I had food.

Now, of course, all the rage on TV is communicating with your dog like a dog. I guess the idea is to influence your dog’s behavior by imitating the mother dog or the pack leader. Usually this boils down to inflicting some type of punishment on or around the dog’s neck. Some trainers grab the dog by the scruff of the neck and shake. But it’s more common that they put a collar on the dog that temporarily chokes him. There are also lots of rules about passing through doorways, sleeping locations and who eats what and when. Everything will be okay they say if you dog perceive you as leader.

But, there’s a problem. Most domestic dogs don’t learn how to live with human beings from other dogs. They learn it from… well… human beings. And, they’re very good at it. It’s no wonder really, dogs have co-evolved with us for thousands of years. A recent Harvard study drives the point home. Researchers wanted to know which animal could best read human behavior cues: a chimpanzee, a tame wolf or a dog. Genetically speaking, chimpanzees are our closest animal cousin and actually share some of our non-verbal behavior traits. Wolves have brains significantly bigger than a dog’s. But it was the domestic dog (canis lupus familiaris) would could read our behavior cues the best (Hare, 2003). Of course! They know us the best.

So, what about being the pack leader? I tend not to worry about that too much. There is actually a great deal of evidence that suggests dogs don’t form packs in quite the same way wolves and other canids do. Most domestic breeds, for example, won’t hunt and kill for food (much less in an organized pack). Dogs, many of whom come into heat more than once a year, will breed indiscriminately (unlike wolves who maintain a breeding pair). And even biologists who specialize in wolves have a hard time discerning a true pack leader in a group of domestic dogs. Researchers tracked a group of strays in Brazil for more than a year. They observed them scavenging for food (never hunting); they saw them wandering and breeding freely; but they never identified an alpha male or female (Coppinger and Coppinger, 2001)

It is true that some dogs are more timid than others. And some will appear to be stronger and more assertive than others. And, yes, dogs do bite the scruffs of each other’s necks. They also growl and hump and posture. They even communicate with facial expressions. But don’t forget what the Harvard dogs taught us. They understand us perhaps even better than we understand them. They learn our cues, both verbal and nonverbal, even better than chimps. And it doesn’t take them long.

My dog was only 12 weeks old when I first saw that. We were locked in a stay. Both of us were relaxed. And the message was clear. “We’re communicating.” I was learning how to train her. She was learning how to read my cues. And, sure enough, it was working.

Juno late in life still holding a perfect “stay”

That was the beginning. Over the past 11 years my dog has traveled the U.S. learning and helping others learn. She’s worked as a therapy dog in nursing homes and a demonstration dog at training events. She’s even starred in a play. She’s not a puppy anymore. Her body is a little stiffer and her face has gone white with age. But I’ll never forget that day we first connected. I wish she could stay forever.

 

Michael Baugh teaches dog training in Houston, TX.  His beloved dog, Juno, died in October 2009 at age 11 1/2.


For Juno

Michael Baugh, CPDT-KA, CDBC

This is not a eulogy or an obituary. She is still alive. Under the desk, just inches away, Juno is sleeping deeply. If I called her she would still sleep. Her hearing’s not the same as it was. I’d have to go touch her gently to wake her. I’d signal in the way we learned when she was just a puppy and she would come to me. She’d sit by me and look up at me. Her eyes are cloudy and I don’t know how well she sees. But she’d look anyway right into my eyes. I’d pat her head even though I know it’s not her favorite thing. It’s habit. Then I’d softly take her snout in my hand and kiss her forehead. She’d sigh and settle down again, probably fall back asleep. We’ve done it like this countless times. It’s our way.

All that started in a puppy class 11 years ago. We were learning “stay.” We were just 6 feet apart and I looked at her and thought, don’t move. And she looked right back and I imagined her thinking, I won’t. Our eyes locked for the minute or two we were supposed to stay apart. But for that minute or two we were closer than if I were hugging her. We were communicating and I think we both knew it. I walked back to her and the instructor said well done. Well done? That was magic. I was hooked – on Juno, on training, on all of it. That’s all it took.

A couple months earlier my partner came to me at work and announced, “I’ve found the most perfect golden retriever puppy ever.” She was unremarkably cute in the way all golden puppies are, curled up in the front seat of the car, sleeping. We named her Juno because all our pets had the names of Greek and Roman deities. She was my first dog since childhood. I knew nothing.

Dogs chew, Juno especially. It’s their nature. It is also their nature to explore, to run, to pull on their leashes, to eat unimaginable things, to bite hard with their sharp puppy teeth. People don’t believe me now when I tell them how bad Juno was. It’s probably for the best. She forced me into training and then seduced me into becoming a trainer. I wrote about it the day she so miserably failed puppy class.

I tossed my puppy class bag in a corner, dropped to the couch, stretched out and stared through the window. My mind wandered to how things always seem to start one way and end a completely different way. Nothing had ended up how I planned. Juno was lapping up her water in the next room. Who are you and what have you done with my puppy, I thought. She padded into the living room as if she’d come to answer me. I looked at her and she was beautiful. There she stood, tail wagging, looking back with clam resolve. For the first time her face foreshadowed the noble dog she would become. And her eyes, for just a moment, showed the ancient wisdom of her kind.

Magic. My partner left and I moved to Cleveland. Juno and I opened North Coast Dogs (training and behavior). She learned agility and fly ball and heart stealing. I lie and tell people NCD grew because we were all so smart and talented. It was really all about hope, the hope that if you brought your dog to us you’d end up with a dog like Juno. I paid her in dried liver and trips to the lake. She was fine with that.

She made TV appearances to share the hope. Then she landed the role of Sandy in a local production of Annie and shared some more. She ran off stage into the audience to see me right in the middle of things on opening night. Otherwise she stole the show and some more hearts.

They came and went, lots of people, lots of dogs. Juno was always there, unremarkably wonderful in the way most goldens are, magical in the way most are not. People who never loved dogs before loved Juno. Some went on to get dogs of their own. She would be anyone’s friend who welcomed her, at times a final friend. There was a woman named Mary who had lived for years in the nursing home we visited. She was blind and deaf and never spoke. Juno made her giggle every time, and every time Mary would pet Juno on the neck and ears. Then one day after her laughter faded, Mary looked up with her blind eyes at no one in particular and announced to us, “She’s three!” I stared. Then I cried. The social worker with us calmed me so I could explain what had just happened. Even now I cry at the strange beauty of it.

It was Juno’s third birthday.

It’s a mast cell tumor. I’ve heard that twice now. The first time we got it all, good margins, simple and easy. This one, less than a year later, will be more difficult, perhaps impossible. After the news I took Juno for a swim. One day long ago she chased a goose out on to Lake Erie and I thought she’d swim to Canada. Now she chases a ball, and tries to corral a second one, just a few feet from me, still with so much heart. I laugh like we’re at the lake again. I laugh and then can’t help but cry.

It wasn’t that long ago, the lake, puppy class. I knew nothing then. Or maybe I knew all I needed to know.

Juno jumped up on the couch and cuddled up next to me with a big heavy sigh. It was one motion. Her breathing fell in with mine and soon puppy class faded away for both of us. There were no hand signals, just my arm around her chest. There were no commands, just comfort. No tests, just this. And true there were no gold medal stickers [on her diploma] , just a golden puppy kind enough to share a nap and claim me as her own.

Not today. But one day I will touch her and she will not wake. No call or signal will bring her. She won’t look up at me. I’ll wonder if my heart is broken. I’ll wonder but then I’ll know better. Perhaps I’ll close my eyes and Mary will tell me; maybe she’ll speak one last time the truth of the old and the sick and the dead. “Juno is off whereever it is unremarkable magical dogs go, swimming a wide lake after a Canada Goose, clutching a ball but still holding fast to your stolen heart.

(this essay was written in May 2009, four months before Juno’s death)

Lifetime Dogs

Michael Baugh CPDT-KA, CDBC

I hear them all the time, stories about that one dog that changed a person’s life. Sometimes the dog is right there. More often than not the dog is already gone, dead, maybe a year, maybe decades ago. But one thing is always the same. The dog in the story is or was the dog. And the person I’m listening to is moved to speak of magic and mystery.

Folks who know dogs well call them “Lifetime Dogs.” There won’t be another one like her, they’ll say. And then the stories come. She was the dog who saw me though my divorce, or the death of my mother, or the time I was laid off. When everyone else turned their back on me, she was the dog who stood by my side. When she looked at me I just knew she understood. She was the best dog I ever had and I still miss her.

I understand. I have a Lifetime Dog. She inspired my first dog training business. She’s traveled the country with me and moved city to city. She’s seen me through loss and disappointment. She’s made me smile and laugh, just about daily. She’s one of my best friends. And though I prattle at her all the time she has never spoken a word to me. Her loyalty is silent and steady. Her name is Juno and I could tell you stories about our life together for days. And I find I want to tell those stories even more these days because Juno is near the end of her life.

So, what is it about her and all these other dogs? How do they pull us through life’s struggles? How do they charm and change our lives so? Or are we asking the right questions?

My belief in the true nature of dogs leads me back to observation. I’ve seen dogs do amazing things: run weave poles at top speed, perform in obedience competition with precision, take down criminals with stealth and strength, and find survivors in rubble when all hope was lost. But the new work of dogs as author Jon Katz calls it, is much harder to see. I’ve never seen a dog talk anyone through divorce or death. I’ve never really seen a dog start a business or find someone a job. In truth, I’ve never seen a dog do anything other than be a dog, just be herself.

The sad truth is I see humans being less than their greatest selves all the time. We struggle and persevere and rarely give ourselves the credit. When we suffer and mourn we are the ones who emerge on the other side standing strong and alive and better than before. We raise families and build lives. And on our best days we embrace the glory of our own lives with laughter and joy. That’s us. That’s you. And yes, if we are lucky we do it with a dog by our side.

And what about these dogs? What about Juno in the waning days of our life together? Is she any less special for having done nothing at all? Is she no longer a “Lifetime Dog” for having been just an ordinary dog? Or maybe ordinary is enough. Maybe her magic is just simply in her being and not at all in her doing. And perhaps the best counselor or friend really is the one who stays by your side without a word while you struggle and heal. And maybe she’s the one who steps aside while you grow and create and emerge anew. She’s always there to play and watch you laugh. And that’s enough. She’s the clear simple reflection of your greatest self. Can’t you see how wonderful you are in her eyes?