Valligators in the Trenches of Puppyland

Less is more...

When was the last time you tried to get an electrified dog collar, the kind with poison pins facing inward, on a puppy? It’s disguised to look like a normal collar, but puppies know. I pick it up and Jolene runs at full speed, slamming the dog door behind her. Mister, the Cardigan Corgi who believes others can see his halo, has no interest in following. He says she can’t get far. I put Mister’s collar on and give his ears a nice rub. His ears are monuments and he likes them handled in a certain way. I don’t stop when I hear the dog door again. Quieter this time.

Yup. I’m a horse trainer but this is week six of me writing about a puppy named Jolene. If you don’t like it, I still have 1500 free training articles on my website. But I’m a woman of a certain age who shovels a combined total of roughly thirty-two tons of horse manure per year. I’ll survive your disappointment. If you are interested in an expanded conversation about training, stick around. Just don’t ask to muck. I need that quantity for mental health reasons.

Back to her collar. I go slow and breath. You know me, I teach Affirmative Training with a focus on Calming Signals. I gently pick her up, cradling her bottom in one hand. Not even a memory of a tail and we chat about her intelligence and beauty. Slow exhales which do not impress Jolene. I slip the collar around her neck and she might strangle herself before I can get it hooked. The leash evokes the same hanging response.

Jolene’s eyes let you know she prefers her own advice, thank you. And she has a bit of a temper. Jolene doesn’t bark at cars or other dogs. She isn’t overly destructive and any lost items are in the backyard where they belong. It’s the slow breakfast service that offends her. She’s a literary dog who yaps in a crystal-shattering shriek, “Are you done writing yet?”

Jolene still meets me at the gate and heels perfectly. Meaning she jumps me from behind, biting alternate ankles with each step. My ankles are the thinnest part of my body. And I have another new word this week. My breeder taught it to me. Vallhund + alligator = Valligator. So, I’ll have an explanation in the emergency room. I move like I’m doing a fire walk. Here is where I should provide photographic proof of my old lady ankles, but apparently, I can only capture napping photos.

No, I won’t be spanking her or yelling at her or clicking at her. It won’t be graceful, but I’ll muffle my screams and redirect her energy. When she nibbles one wrist, I remember that her adult teeth are fighting to get out. I’ll pull that hand away and pet her with my other hand, which she will immediately nibble on. I tell her she’s good, and switch hands again. Soon she is sleeping in my lap. Because affirmative training works.

It’s my goal that she never hear the word NO. It’s a nothing word, with the intellectual content of a cheese puff. NO is the least informational word, used by frustrated humans trying to dumb-down others by intimidation. My career has been spent rehabbing those who were trained by the impatience and frustration of NO. I can do better, so just let me whine about my ankles and get on with waging peace with the valligator.

Mister, Jolene, and I have been sleeping in the camper. We have our first clinic soon and need to practice. After a couple hours of bitey-face, Mister pretended to break a leg and blamed Jolene. After checking it, I benched him. Athletes of his caliber shake these things off. Jolene shrieked for an hour at the injustice of being abandoned. She’s compassionate like that. Then she stole his chewy and insisted on smacking on it in the same dog bed. Mister won’t say NO either.

We are happy in our little world. It’s a wet summer, the weeds are green. One afternoon, I was standing outside of the yard filling a bucket. Mister and Jolene were so sweetly napping in the shade that I pulled out my phone. Jolene bolted instantly around the shrub so fast I wasn’t sure what happened. Cripes, she got a bird. I called her in a bright voice. I knew nothing else would work because she is an anti-retriever with zero recall, and scaring her would make it worse. The bird was a young grackle, and now Jolene was torturing it. Letting it go, watching it flap, and grabbing it again. As I entered the yard, she ran into the house. Mister went too, but I don’t think he knew why. Somehow we managed to save the bird amidst Jolene’s bloodlust and, in spite of wild flapping under my desk. Jolene learns by example. We are not killers here, even if I was secretly proud of her.

Sitting down to finish writing, Jolene wants to give me a valligator lap dance. I can’t say NO. At four months, her puppy teeth have dulled some. Maybe she’ll lose one soon. Perhaps in my wrist, which has slightly more flesh than my ankle.

Here’s the funny part about affirmative training. Doing less works. Now Jolene sits next to Mister and after his collar goes on, she stays perfectly still and lifts her chin. My friends at The Barn School are chuckling because haltering is the crucial thing with horses. It’s so obvious. Just stop fighting and there is no fight. Give her time to figure it out, say yes to encourage confidence. Problems will leave on their own. She walks on a loose leash now. This week, she got her nails done. They love her, as we all must, and she came back looking like the inflight movie had been about Vikings.

Mister and I are not saints. We roll our eyes at each other behind Jolene’s back. I wear thick socks and Mister is becoming a hypochondriac. Jolene’s crate has been open and ignored. Sometimes Mister goes in for a rest, curling under his invisibility cloak. She found him, of course, and stole the crate. Such a nice napping place. And just like that, without a whimper and on her terms, crate training was done. Mister is crazy like a fox.

When things get too frazzled, I crate myself in my room or wander to the barn to get Edgar Rice Burro’s counsel. If I’m gone too long, Jolene squeals to remind me I’m lucky. She is wild with glee and as I get to the gate, she runs away, dragging a fresh bath towel. Mister grabs the other end, their barks and growls muffled as they zoom at breakneck speed. Cheering is the only option. I praise her because nothing else works. Bath towels are washable but a puppy’s mind is precious. Jolene would have you know she can’t help but learn. It’s our job to be careful what we teach. I’m pretty sure they roll their eyes behind my back, too.

Besides, it’s always been dogs that stayed at my heel when humans left. Natural anti-depressants, with a world view brighter than mine. When I was little, my frustrated mother shushed me outside with the dogs, hoping they’d babysit. But the dogs were pirates, daredevils, and rabble-rousers. They raised me well. Calming signals are practically my first language. Even now when I mourn the loss of a loved one, four legs or two, it’s not a hug I want. It’s that dog who gives me a look, yawns to remind me to breathe, and says let’s take a car ride.

Part 6 in a series. (Here’s Part 1 and Part 2 and Part 3 and Part 4 and Part 5)

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