How To Train A Human

On a recent trip to the pet store to restock supplies, I came across one of those adoption events where a local animal shelter brings in fuzzy and furry friends that are in need of a forever home. Never mind the fact that we share our home with two dogs and a cat already, I am simply incapable of walking past without looking at those adorable faces. To say I am a true animal lover misses the mark. I am enchanted when I look in the eyes of nearly any of God’s creatures, and never pass up an opportunity to do so. Scientists are still debating the existence of other intelligent life in the universe and are looking to the stars for answers. I maintain there is more intelligent life right here on earth and often sharing our homes than they recognize.

On this trip, I was not even contemplating bringing home another pet, a view one man standing nearby obviously shared. He and his wife were discussing the possibility that the bundle wriggling, wiggling and wagging in her arms could become a member of their household. The pained look on the man’s face made me smile, as in it I saw echoes of my husband many years ago.

My husband is not what one would call a dog person. It’s not that he doesn’t like animals, as he most assuredly does, but he is not someone who would be accused of anthropomorphizing them. To him, it is a dog. Or a cat. Preferably, someone else’s dog or cat.

He was opposed to being a pet owner primarily because of the work, expense and necessary lifestyle changes sharing a home with an animal requires. It was never that he didn’t like animals per se. But when we married, my cat was part of the package. I did not at that time have a dog though I desperately wanted one, because I too recognized that there are lifestyles and choices one makes as part of the deal when sharing your home with a dog.

Cats are in this sense easier pets, as they do not require you maintain a schedule or be faced with bodily fluids on the floor when you get home. Cats don’t poop or pee on the floor if you haven’t been home in sixteen hours out of a biological necessity as would a dog that was left unattended for such an extended period of time. They have a box in which to leave their deposits, where they considerately cover-up their stinky messes. They are generally fastidious in this way. When a cat leaves an offering of a sample of its bowels on your coverlet, it is a statement, not a biological imperative. Then again, making these types of statements on occasion may in fact be as integral a part of being a cat as is the natural need to empty its bowels. But, that’s a mystery to be pondered another day, and I mention it only to point out one of the basic differences between having a cat or a dog in your life.

When I say I wanted a dog, I had certain requirements in mind. I did have specific breeds in mind, but since it wasn’t something that was going to happen for a long time, it was an academic exercise to ponder the relative advantages and disadvantages of a Mastiff versus an Irish Wolfhound. With the Mastiff, there was a slobber factor that was a negative, but they do have that magnificent lion-sized head. A Wolfhound has a grace to it’s massive body that I have always found stunning, though I have never been a big fan of the wiry-haired type of coat.

Both breeds filled the most important criteria for me though, and that was size. Anything less than about eighty five pounds is medium sized, and I wanted not just a big dog, but a truly massive one. As one of it’s functions would be a walking, breathing crime deterrent, size really did matter. A dog that can stand on its hind legs and look a six foot tall man in the eyes is a lot more intimidating than something that bounces when it yips at your ankles, as if the sound it produces creates waves of energy sufficient to lift it off the ground. Something that yipped was as unacceptable to my husband as something that made piles in the yard that weighed more than something that yipped.

We were at a stalemate, and the compromise arrived at involved time. Because he worked from home, he would by default become any dog’s primary caregiver. Until I was at home as much as he was, in other words when I retired, it wasn’t fair that he would be forced to take on that role when he didn’t really want a dog to begin with.

One day, I came home from work to find my husband looking at pictures of dogs on the internet. This was as surprising as it would have been to find him suddenly interested in learning Tibetan and booking a trip to Kathmandu for a cultural and linguistic immersion.

He asked me if I had ever heard of the dog breed Great Pyrenees. I admitted I hadn’t, but was instantly enthralled with the photos. These were classified as a giant breed, had an incredibly regal manner about them, approximated the size of a Mastiff or Wolfhound and had the bonus of a beautiful pure white, long haired coat that made them appear as if they were floating in the wind as they ran in the videos we were watching. I was enraptured.

He then informed me that a friend of his had one of these dogs, already eight months old. This friend was going to Afghanistan soon, and he needed to find a new home for his 85-pound puppy. This is how we came to share our home with Buddy.

As his previous owner was a K-9 officer, Buddy was already well trained when he joined our household. In addition to all the basic commands, he knew quite a few tricks and it was with delight that we discovered he was as smart as he was beautiful. We did all the reading we could on the breed and learned that his intelligence was matched only by his stubbornness, but thankfully he was also incredibly sweet natured and wanted to please. We discovered quickly that if we did not take control of the situation and assert ourselves as his superiors, we would never be able to make him do anything he didn’t also want to do. If he didn’t want to go somewhere, short of picking him up and moving him, something that would not be a possibility for me and would be an effort even for my husband once he was full grown, he would remain planted right where he was. This was an issue the first day he came to live with us, as he discovered stairs.

His previous home was a single story ranch, so this novelty of a long flight of stairs was a challenge for him. He went up just fine. However, when it came time to come back down, there was a problem. He simply lay down at the head of the stairs and all the coaxing, cajoling, ordering and even pulling on his leash was simply futile. He just lay there making the most pathetic mewling sound imaginable, particularly as it issued from this gigantic dog that really was still just a puppy. Eventually, my husband had to pick him up and carry him down the stairs. To save my husband’s back, we immediately blocked the stairs to prevent a repeat performance.

It was at this moment that I discovered my husband really did have an inner dog person just waiting to come out. As we were discussing this dilemma of having a dog that was afraid of the stairs, I conceded that it may not be an overall bad thing. At least we wouldn’t have to deal with dog fur on the second floor of the house. My husband’s reaction was to suggest that perhaps the dog was simply stressed with so many changes and in time he would get over his fear. He went on to say something along the lines of “We’ll just have to be patient and give him time to get used to us and his new environment." Thankfully, the stairs were a challenge he soon overcame.

Over the next weeks and months, it was common for me to come home from work to find out Buddy had spent his day curled up in the knee hole under my husband’s desk. Of course, to protect his reputation of merely putting up with the dog, this information was shared with a complaint of how this choice of sleeping arrangements made it difficult for my husband to actually sit at his desk, as upwards of 85 pounds of dog sleeping on your feet tends to make your legs go numb. I would just smile.

That summer we planned on going to a festival for the 4th of July. Buddy was still technically a puppy and therefore consigned to a crate, albeit a really big one, in the basement when we left the house for more than a few hours. He hadn’t had any accidents since the first week or so, but since he was still more puppy than dog, we didn’t completely trust him not to tear up, chew or get into anything while we were not home. At his size he could do a lot of damage had he been so inclined.

When getting ready to leave, we simply had to open the door to the basement and tell Buddy to go to his room. He would then lumber down the stairs dejectedly, amble into his crate and plop himself down with an exaggerated sigh. Until I witnessed it the first time, I didn’t even know a dog could sigh in resignation like that.

My husband was handling this task as I was ushering the kids out the door and I heard my husband talking to the dog, something he swore he didn’t do. He was explaining, in full sentences, that we wouldn’t be long, and that this was as much for him as it was for us; that this was just to guarantee he didn’t do something that would he get in trouble for while we weren’t home. I even heard him say “I know, I know, you’re a good boy and haven’t done anything like that, and we’ll just keep it that way."

Just before we pulled out of the driveway, I discovered I had forgotten something and needed to run back in the house. When I opened the front door, I heard voices and realized someone had left a TV on. Headed for the family room, I passed the open door to the basement and realized the sound was coming from downstairs. When I went down to investigate, not only did I find the TV on, it was repositioned on a table, just a few feet from and pointed at the dog’s crate.

I was still laughing when I got back in the car, and was soon joined by hoots and hollers from the backseat when I told my husband it was really nice of him to leave the TV on for the dog’s entertainment while we were gone. I asked him if he also left the remote so Buddy could change channels, or if he just put on Animal Planet and left.

In a vain attempt to preserve his reputation as a not a dog person and with a quick glare in my direction followed by one for the backseat, he said “Haha, very funny. I just put the TV on to create background noise so any fireworks going off in the neighborhood won’t scare him." His defense for moving the TV into position for the dog to clearly see it, too, was, “Go ahead and laugh. He likes watching TV”.

The following spring, just before his second birthday and now weighing in at a respectable 120 pounds, Buddy tore a ligament in his knee. Given the stoic nature of his breed, it was heartbreaking to hear the cry of pain he issued when it happened. At first, we weren’t even sure what happened, as he had been running, playing and jumping with the kids in the yard. He limped for a few seconds, favoring his back right leg, but went right on playing as before. Of course, we immediately told the kids to stop, and called the dog over to check him, thinking we would find a thorn or something in his paw. I ran my hands down his leg, checking every inch of him and he neither reacted as if in pain nor pulled away. I couldn’t find any evidence of injury.

However, it was apparent that something happened, as he was ever so slightly limping. My husband suggested that he pulled a muscle or stepped on something sharp that had hurt but did not break the skin. I had never heard of a dog pulling a muscle, but figured it was possible, and as he didn’t seem to be in pain, whatever it was must not have been that big of a deal. We decided to just watch him and see what he did over the next few days.

Soon, we knew something wasn’t right, as he limped sometimes when he walked, seemed to change his gait when he ran, but didn’t worry too much as he was still running, playing and didn’t even seem to mind stairs.

We took him to the local vet, who diagnosed the problem, but were told we would need a specialist to handle a reconstructive surgery. Some research on the Internet and phone calls to breeders revealed the name of a vet who specialized in the treatment not just of giant breeds, but of Great Pyrs in particular. The fact that my husband didn’t even blink at the notion we would have to drive two hours each way to this vet told me how attached he had become to this dog he didn’t even really want.

Surgery was scheduled, and it was decided that our car would not suffice for the trip. My husband rented a full-size SUV, so Buddy could be laid in the back comfortably for his post-surgery ride home. Of course I laid with him, to keep him calm and still so he wouldn’t hurt himself or tear out his stitches as my husband drove us home. Getting him into the house was another challenge, as moving one hundred and twenty pounds of drugged dog is no easy feat. But that was nothing compared to the physical therapy we would need to do with him over the next weeks and months.

Initially, I did the therapy, which required having Buddy lay on his side and manipulating his leg so it would properly heal. He didn’t like this, but he and I had come to an understanding a long time ago, and he would do or let me do anything to him I wanted. He was and is truly a good dog in this and so many other ways.

When little or no progress was seemingly being made with his therapy, a return trip to the vet was scheduled, complete with another SUV rental. This trip my husband had to make alone, as I had to work. When I got home, anxious to hear what the Vet said, my husband was both grim and amused.

He informed me that the dog had pulled a really big one over me.

All the while I had been thinking Buddy was allowing me to stretch and pull on his leg, something I knew couldn’t be comfortable for him if it didn’t outright cause him pain, Buddy was just messing with my head. I simply wasn’t doing the exercises forcefully enough to be effective. As my husband informed me of this, the dog did at least have the apparent good manners to look abashed. I swear my husband shared a conspiratorial look with the dog as well.

My husband said after he had demonstrated how I had been performing the therapy, the vet explained that I had not been getting the leg through the range of motions required. The vet further explained that I would not be able to, as even debilitated as he was on pain killers, the dog was simply too strong for me. The vet had called in an assistant, a girl about my size, to have her lay herself across the dog and keep him immobilized while he demonstrated the necessary motions.

With my husband holding Buddy down at the shoulders and the girl sprawled across his abdomen, the vet attempted to show my husband just how far the leg would need to be extended. Buddy didn’t like this. So, he simply stood up, sending the woman, my husband and the vet flying in the process. My husband said Buddy didn’t make a sound, didn’t react in any other way, just stood up, shook himself and placidly looked at them as if to say, “No, this game isn’t fun and I don’t want to play."

He said Buddy stayed true to his reputation as a really good dog and lay back down when told to do so, but with obvious reluctance. Once lying down and told to stay, my husband and the assistant switched positions for the second attempt at a demonstration of the range of motion required. We always knew Buddy was strong, just looking at the size of him, but my husband said he never dreamed just how strong. He said it took all of his strength to hold him down while the vet manipulated his leg. When the vet switched places with my husband so he could learn the exercises, my husband was grateful for his years of weight training. With reassurances that he wouldn’t and in fact couldn’t hurt the dog, the vet kept telling him to pull harder. As he was leaving the office, my husband’s concern was how he and I were going to be able to do, twice a day, what it took the three of them to accomplish.

After a heart to heart conversation with the dog explaining that I didn’t appreciate his deception, my husband and I laid him down on the floor for the first home session of his therapy. With only me to lay on him and hold him down, we seriously doubted we’d be successful without the dog’s cooperation. Once again, he lived up to his reputation as a good boy and after only one half-hearted attempt at dislodging me, acquiesced to having his leg pulled, manipulated and pushed through the full range of motions required for effective therapy. My husband disagreed with just how much cooperation Buddy was giving, as he was sweating from exertion.

For six weeks, this was a twice daily routine it was hard to say who dreaded most. Each time we called him into the family room and pointed to the spot on the floor where we wanted him to lay, he would come with his head and tail down, but he would come. He didn’t literally drag his feet, but he sure did walk slow, resignation emanating with every step, to the sound of my husband sweet talking him, telling him he was a good boy, saying how he didn’t want to do this either, but it was for the best and he had to trust us. Just the kind of conversation my husband would have with one of the kids when it was time for a dentist appointment involving a cavity or root canal.

I couldn’t resist needling my husband at the time or reminding him since how it was a shame he didn’t like having a dog, how it was just too bad he couldn’t bond with an animal and how he just wasn’t a dog person.

Several years went by before we added our newest, and my husband swears our final, furry household member. His name is Charlie and he is a Puggle, a Pug Beagle mix. When he came home with us at three months of age, he was all puppy. Until that day, he had lived for at least the past month in a crate, meaning he had no potty training.

It has been many, many years since I potty trained a puppy. Had I remembered just how hard it was, particularly with another breed mix known as much for its stubbornness as it was for its intelligence, Charlie may not have come into our lives. That was nearly two years ago, and thankfully, we have all lived through that phase, with our house and floors relatively intact.

Puggles are one of those breeds that have the same face when they are a full grown dog that they did when they were a puppy. It is probably his most endearing quality, and has been the primary reason he is still in this household, at least according to my husband. I don’t blame him, as he has suffered some of the worst indignities a human can at the paws of this little master manipulator.

Charlie has been trained to ask to go out by staring at us until we get the hint, if we are not in the kitchen. If we are, he simply goes up to the door and puts his paws on it, signaling where he wants to go. If we are in bed, as we were the other night at 2:30a a.m., he will make a very quiet but forceful mewling sound until someone either wakes up or if awake, pays attention to him.

Pretty much anything less than a SCUD missile landing on the house doesn’t wake me, something the dogs know, so it was at my husband that Charlie directed his attention the other night. And yes, woke him in the process.

After asking repeatedly if he was sure he wanted to go out, my husband got out of bed and followed Charlie downstairs. Once in the kitchen, instead of going to the back door, Charlie headed straight for the stove and sat down on the throw rug, the place he has been trained to sit while waiting for his dinner. It has also become the place he sits when he wants to beg food.

My husband said that at the same moment he realized Charlie was on "his" rug and not at the back door, he smelled the evidence that one of the kids had just made a post-midnight snack of popcorn. In a bid to eat healthier, we make popcorn in the evenings for a snack in lieu of chips or other goodies. My husband started it so he has no one but himself to blame, but the custom has also become to toss a popped kernel or two to the dogs. We joke it is doggy crack, the way the go for it.

So, Charlie got my husband out of bed at 2:30 in the morning because his doggie senses picked up the smell of popcorn.

When I heard this story the next morning, I couldn’t help myself. I nearly fell out of the kitchen chair laughing. My husband is now a fully trained human and he will see the humor in this some day. Telling him that calling the dog bad words was indeed anthropomorphizing earned me a glare. And an exuberant tail wagging from both dogs. The cat, as usual, feigned indifference, but it must be noted he has been the recipient of his share of popcorn from my husband’s bowl as well. Fortunately for my husband, it is still decidedly my cat. Unfortunately, I’m the one who is the recipient of the cat’s manipulations. Being woken up in the middle of the night for popcorn by sweet mewling is less startling than being woken up my a sudden, intense pressure on your chest and a face inches from your nose. I think I’d prefer a SCUD missle.