Click Marks Your “Spot”

“Animal Razzle” was a howling success this past weekend.  Kudos to all those that organized it.  Let’s do it again next year.  I’ve been active in pet expos like this for years and invariably see relationships between people and their animal companions that both inspire and terrify.  Kind of a “shock and awe” thing.

It’s no secret that dogs don’t speak English or any other language known to humankind.  That is not to say our dogs don’t communicate.  They do in many varied and wonderful ways.  The problem lies with our inability to understand what our dogs are saying and vice-versa.  If that doesn’t makes sense, fly across the pond and ask a citizen of Moscow for directions to the Kremlin.

So how do you bridge the communication gap?  Week one of my training classes begin with an introduction to an ingenius little device known as a clicker.  The clicker is a little noisemaker that has been used my trainers of circus animal and aquatic animals for years.

Simply put, the clicker is a marker for good behavior.  It replaces the “good dog, good boy, atta girl!” and other phrases that have about as much meaning to your dog as saying “hula hoop” whenever they lay down for you.  Clickers are a tool, not a toy or an attention getting device.  When your dog complies with a command or cue, mark the behavior with a click and follow up immediately with a reward (usually a high value treat).  You can pick up clickers at any Petsmart store.  I think they run anywhere from $1.69 to $3.99.   

How will your dog know that the clicker translates to “good dog?”  It begins with an exercise called “loading the clicker.”  Grab some tasty treats.  The clicker will have no meaning to your dog without them.  Hit your clicker and present your dog with a treat.  Repeat several times in different parts of your home.  Your dog needs to learn that the clicker signals a reward no matter where you are. 

After giving what I thought was a thorough explanaation of this exercise in class three years ago, I instructed my students to “load their clickers.”  Everyone grabbed their bag of treats except for one confused woman who began stuffing them inside her clicker.  She later complained that her clicker wouldn’t work properly.  Folks, it’s not a six shooter.  Loading the clicker simply means pairing the treats with the clicker and creating an association between the two.  Next, play the “name game.”  Call your dog’s name and wait for eye contact.  When you get it, click immediately and reward.

Congratulations!  You have taken first big step towards being in relationship with your dog.  She understands that good behavior will be rewarded.  And that means you’re likely to see that behavior again.  What a concept!

For All the Dogs I’ve Loved Before…

Dixie on one our many hikes

Catchy phrase — wonder if I can get Willie Nelson to put some music to it…

It was 1986 and there were three yellow lab puppies huddled in a plain brown box outside a grocery store.  My ex-wife picked up the last one and walked into our living room uttering the immortal words – ”can we keep her?”

Her name became Princess but she was anything but a diva.  She was a Lab through and through.  Princess approached ponds and puddles with equal gusto.  Ducks and geese took great pleasure and luring her into the lake, waiting until she approached, then taking flight and stranding her several hundred feet from the shore.  Mind you this was before doggie life jackets.  But Princess was at home in the water and there was never any doubt that she would make it back to shore.

The most memorable quirk of Princess’ personality was what behaviorists now call the submissive grin.  Her smile was offered as more of a sneer when scolded followed by a snake-like hiss as she attempted to breathe through her teeth.  The smile became more animated during greetings.  Often my arrival home was met with an impressive show of teeth, a head bobbing as though she were at a Metallica show, and projectile saliva.  People that did not understand this behavior thought Princess was the reincarnation of Stephen King’s “Cujo.”

Princess survived a compound fracture of her left rear leg compliments of a grumpy neighbor as well as a litter of 10 puppies (if I knew then what I know now…)  Few dogs survive bone cancer and Princess was no exception  She passed peacefully at the age of 14 in 2000.

I am an uncle of sorts to Maggie, the dachshund my mother said she would never own.   After Missy died (see previous “dlog”), mom swore there were to be no more dogs.  Then one day I found her surfing the classifieds.  The next thing I knew, we were driving out to meet a rural family with a litter of wieners. 

Maggie is OCD when it comes to her squeaky ball and never tires of fetch now eight years into her life.  Toss the ball into a small trash basket and Maggie will tip it over, borrow through the debris, and emerge with her ball.  If you have ever watched that prehistoric little squirrel featured in the “Ice Age” movies, you know Maggie.

Just last week, Maggie became lethargic and lost her appetite.  X-rays revealed a herniated disk in her back that is in danger of rupturing.  If it does, Maggie could be paralyzed.  Growing old really sucks whether you have two, three, or four legs.  Perhaps the curse of owning a dog is that they don’t live long enough.

Each of the dogs I have referenced have enriched my life and contributed to the relationship I treasure with Dixie.  While I have cherished each of these dogs, Dixie is and will be the dog of my life.  No relationship with humankind  or beast compares.  May you be so fortunate as to experience such a bond with your dog.

Tracing My Family Tree (Dogwood, of course)

Dixie at rest under the family tree

Sipping on a tall glass of OJ while reminiscing about the dogs that have shared my life.  Join me on this trip down the memory lane, then take one of your own.  

I grew up with dachshunds.  My 78 year old mother has one to this day.  Two wieners ago, she proclaimed there would be no more.  Dachsies are renowned for their stubbornness, voracious appetites, and the ability to burrow an 18 hole miniature golf course out back in a single afternoon.  Hardly a low maintenance breed.

Hans, or “Hanzie” was the dog of my childhood.  There are pictures in the family photo album of me curled up in his wicker basket bed for an afternoon siesta.  Hanzie was tolerant of probes by a curious preschooler and always willing to play the villain when I donned my Superman cape.  Hanzie was my first encounter with death.  I think I was 10.  He taught me that those we love will always be with us as long as we remember them.

Hildegard, of “Hildy” came next.  She was the dog of my youth.  Hildy had the physique of a summer sausage and battled the bulge throughout her life.  Girth mattered not, however, when Mrs. Parmenter next door emerged with a soup bone.  Hildy would have challenged even the most streamlined wiener in a 50 yard dash if Mrs. P was at the finish line.  Her tail spun like a helicopter blade as she urinated a small pond on the patio at the mere appearance of our neighbor.  I confess that I thankfully did not have that effect on Hildy.  Hildy was always there during the many adolescent storms that rolled in and out.  Hildy taught me the unbridled joy dogs experience over the simplest of pleasures.

Missy, or “Mini” followed Hildy.  I was in college and living away from home through much of her life.  Missy was the diminutive clown that was likely a lizard in a previous life.  Picking her up meant enduring a tongue that probed every facial orifice that presented itself.  Ear wax — a runny nose?  No problem.  Sadly, Missy’s life was cut short by a variety of ailments.  Still, her affections comforted by parents during a painful divorce.  No doubt her antics kept things light when a bit of laughter was needed.

Time to pull over at the memory lane rest stop.  Next come the dogs of my adult years — Princess, Maggie, and of course, Dixie.  Until then, close your eyes, smile, and remember.  The lessons learned from the dogs of our past keep us in relationship with the dogs of our present.

I Think We’re Onto Something!

I was cautiously optimistic when Lila said we might have 10 people attend our first canine etiquette program this past Thursday.  All we asked is that Prescott area dog lovers leave their pooches at home and come down to Furry Little Monsters and converse with some trainer that had been in town a little over a month.  No big deal, right?

Thanks to Lila’s wonderful outreach and promotional wizardry, 12 delightfully dedicated pet parents spent nearly an hour sipping wine and discussing what it means to be in relationship with a dog. 

Dixie and I came to know Whimsey the Timid and Ruby the Prescott Jumping Bean.  Then there was Teddy, a dog with a hearing impairment (I prefer that to “deaf dog”) that has learned cues in sign language.  And of course, Spencer, Lila’s best friend, who has inspired a new breed called “fox tail tick hound.”  Ask Lila next time you’re in Furry Little Monsters.  She’ll tell you all about it. 

For new readers of the “dlog,” I teach obedience classes at Petsmart in Prescott.  Classes are forming right now and are offered during the day as well as weekends and evenings.  Stop by the store next to Costco and sign up for a class today!

Welcome To My “Dlog”

Dixie has spoken.  These musings are no longer categorized as a blog.  Rather, it is a “dlog.”  Every canine with a laptop sit up and take notice.  This one’s for you.

The desert sun wastes no time warming the summer landscape so Dixie and I opted for a hike at dawn.  Dixie is in her element when exploring the web of trails around Prescott.  Today’s quest was Thumb Butte on the west end of town.  My mother, a flat lander from Kansas, refers to it as “Thumb Butt.”  Hardly dignified for such a majestic peak sculpted of granite and textured by the elements over several millenium.

The 1,500 foot climb is worthy of a stout heart so I knew Dixie would be up to the task.  We ogled to the east overlooking the city once we reached the crest before heading back down.  Tourists and locals alike marveled at the grit of a three-legged mountain climbing dog.  Dixie lapped up every word as though it were prime rib.

Dixie elicits two reactions of opposite extremes.  The first is one of inspiration.  Many times a curious onlooker  will power down their window as they pass and yell “awesome dog!”  The other reaction is one of pity.  “Awwwww, poor doggie.”  Watch this dog run agility, visit hospital patients, or blaze a trail.  Does she look — well — pitiful?  I think not.  “Poor doggie” is the Yorkie trapped inside a $500 leather handbag while his affluent owner shops the trendy stores on 5th Avenue.

If you are truly in relationship with your dog, you vacillate somewhere between parent and best friend.  You understand that this highly evolved creature is in tune with your emotions but is also a thinking, sentient creature needing stimulation of both mind and body.  You realize there are times when you have to set boundaries and apply consequences much like a parent would with a toddler.  But then there are those days that her mere presence warms even the darkest reaches of your soul.  And there are those times when your touch calms and soothes after an an unexpected clap of thunder. 

Rabbits, rodents, fish, and reptiles are pets.  Dogs (OK, cats too) are family.

My son took this picture of Thumb Butte -- not bad, eh?

Bombs Bursting in Air — Is Your Dog Still There?

Can We Talk?

Dixie here.  While my trusty sidekick bikes across the Willow Creek Trail and beyond, I’m going to share some thoughts on this holiday weekend.

I’m at patriotic as the next dog.  I love living in a nation where most dogs are reveared as celebrated members of the family.  Nowadays we have parks, sports, hotels, spas, resorts — heck, now we even have an airline! — just for us!  And let’s not forget the dogs that served alongside our brave soldiers on distant shores.  Some sniffed for land mines.  Others rescued fallen comrades.  Noble creatures, one and all.

Having said that, I must admit that July 4 is my least favorite holiday.  It’s the noise.  It’s the food I crave but I know I shouldn’t have.  Here are some tips for keeping my friends and I safe this weekend.

1.  Most of my friends are sensitive to sudden loud noises.  Fireworks come to mind.  We need a quiet place to retreat where we can curl up with a bone or any of the other food dispensing toys found at Furry Little Monsters.  And PLEASE — don’t leave us out in the yard or tether us to a stake this weekend.  You have no idea how frightening that can be during the rocket’s red glare.

2.  Animals have a natural aversion to fire.  We don’t need to see you spell your name in the air with sparklers and we’re not impressed with colored smoke bombs.  What we need is to feel safe and secure (see above).

3.  Keep us on the wagon.  Letting us lap up your favorite brewsky may get a laugh from old Uncle Charlie but it lights up my belly like a Roman Candle.

4.  Grapes, raisins, onions, avocados, macadamia nuts are toxic no-nos.  If you insist on indulging us, stop by Furry Little Monsters and pick up some American-made treats or add some yummy vegetables to my kibble.  Kongs gorged with peanut butter of Kong paste are pretty cool too.

5.  Keep your bug spray and sunscreen to yourself.  I know you mean well but that stuff wasn’t meant for us and can have some dire side effects.

6.  Most pools are a one way ticket to disaster.  Getting in is easy.  Getting out is another story.  You know we love the water so keep an eye on us if we’re invited on the pool deck with your posse.  

Go have your fun without us.  It’s really OK.  Just come home in one piece.  Remember that we need you almost as much as you need us.