Service Dogs and Monkeys

I have found myself in an interesting situation. Brockle has stepped into the position of my #1 assistant.

He's gone beyond the status of a good companion and protector. He has voluntarily begun to help me manage my Parkinson's.

Parkinson's is a demanding monkey to carry on your back. It hates to be ignored and can get really pissy if it feels it's not being properly treated. I am not a gracious host, especially when my guest is an uninvited, rude monkey that keeps bonking me on the head with a banana. I tend to ignore my monkey's ranting, even though I know I'll be toting it's carcass around for the rest of my life.

My particular monkey likes to make my blood pressure plummet if it feels I should be drinking more water, getting more sleep, or eating better food. I'm not talking feeling a little dizzy. I call it "crashing." I know I've blown it when the room begins to spin, I fall flat on my face and am incapable of even raising my head for up to twenty minutes. Sometimes I pass out, sometimes I don't.

The first week I had Brockle, I crashed at 1:00 a.m. or so. I ended up in the hall. When I came to my new dog was stretched out next to me, with his body pressed against me as close as he could get.

It happened again a few months later. This time, I was outside and it was snowing heavily. It was maybe 3:00 a.m. I came to with Brockle jumping on my head, pulling at my arms and hair and pawing at my body. He stood still and let me use him to stand up, and I balanced off him while we made or way back inside. I hate to think what might have happened if he hadn't been so insistent.

Since then, my meds have been adjusted and I'm doing much better.

Brockle has no faith in modern medicine and has taken it upon himself to manage my care. He can tell before I can when my BP is off kilter. He clings, nuzzles and pesters until I sit down. He hasn't been wrong yet.

Since Brockle has forced me to play nice with my monkey, I decided to start encouraging his natural inclination to help me. It hasn't taken much more than a heartfelt "Good dog," and a few treats.

So far he has learned to help me balance when I'm off kilter, steady me as I go up and down stairs and learned the command "Brace," so I can use him to get up off the ground or out of difficult furniture.  He alerts me when my med alarm goes off -- at five times a day, I'm really good at tuning it out. Well, I used to be, Not so much any more.

I did an awesome face plant in a parking lot last week. It was pure PD vaudeville. One minute I'm walking, then suddenly I'm kissing a puddle of anti-freeze. I was fairly sore and bloody.

The next morning, right in the middle of a detailed and dramatic reenactment of the event, my mother
said, "Would you have fallen if you had Brockle?"

"Probably not. Maybe. But it sure would have been easier to stand back up."

"Don't you think it's time to get a harness?" she asked.

What she means is a service dog harness.

I don't know how many of you are up on the current service dog controversy. I'll start with a brief rundown of the situation and am interested in your thoughts.

First off, here's the legal definition of a service dog:

Service animals are defined as dogs that are individually trained to do work or perform tasks for people with disabilities. Examples of such work or tasks include guiding people who are blind, alerting people who are deaf, pulling a wheelchair, alerting and protecting a person who is having a seizure, reminding a person with mental illness to take prescribed medications, calming a person with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) during an anxiety attack, or performing other duties. Service animals are working animals, not pets. The work or task a dog has been trained to provide must be directly related to the person’s disability. Dogs whose sole function is to provide comfort or emotional support do not qualify as service animals under the ADA.

Then, let's move on to where service dogs are allowed.:

Under the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA), privately owned businesses that serve the public, such as restaurants, hotels, retail stores, taxicabs, theaters, concert halls, and sports facilities, are prohibited from discriminating against individuals with disabilities. The ADA requires these businesses to allow people with disabilities to bring their service animals onto business premises in whatever areas customers are generally allowed.


Here's the dilemma:
If you are not certain that an animal is a service animal, you may ask the person who has the animal if it is a service animal required because of a disability. Although a number of states have programs to certify service animals, you may not insist on proof of state certification before permitting the service animal to accompany the person with a disability.

What is happening is people are claiming their dogs are service dogs and taking them with them wherever they go.

Part of me says, "So?"

Except, from what I understand, if a person is enough of an asshat to fake a disability, they're generally stupid/obnoxious/jerky enough to not bother training the dog.

A professionally trained service dog lays quietly under the table while in a restaurant, doesn't fight with other dogs or pee on the plants in a theater, doesn't bark, scare or threaten other people, you know, has manners. Then, on top of all that, it does whatever it's job is.

Fakers are causing all kinds of crap. It puts those of us without easily recognized issues under constant scrutiny.

I can't help but wonder why there isn't a standardized test to certify a service dog. Not for the disability they assist with, but for basic civilized behavior.

There are strong arguments from the professionals who train service dogs. It's an industry in itself, complete with breeding programs, and very specific training.

If there was a standardized test, then anybody could take it and theoretically, pass it. Would that undermine the work of a professional?

Personally, I think it could and should expand the market. If I could find a class on training my own service dog I'd be all over it. With required certification, the classes would be full. This opens the door to training for the actual service the dog would perform. The inevitable wash-outs would provide customers for an already trained dog.

We had a kennel here in Colorado that sold diabetic alert dogs. These dogs, when properly trained can save the live of their owner. Unfortunately, this particular kennel didn't bother to actually train the dogs to do anything. People were paying $20,000 dollars or so for a happy house pet.

I think regulation makes sense in every direction.

For Brockle and I, it's not going to be that complicated. We'll get our harness and start slowly and easily working our way into a pair that can go everywhere.
We're going to get his CGC (Canine Good Citizen) certification this summer. Then we'll move on to Rally, and the Community Canine, an advanced CGC test (http://www.akc.org/dog-owners/training/akc-community-canine/test-items/).

My fear of being embarrassed will make damn sure he can cope with each step. We'll go as far as we're able, and I think we'll be fine.

As far as continuing to progress at home, we're working on picking things I drop off the floor, and ignoring people and dogs.

Somebody asked me, "Have you thought about getting a real service dog?"

I thought about everything Brockle and I have worked out between us already.
"I've already got one," I said.

WTH is Brockle? Behaviors

Yeah, I can't stand it.

I've got to let you in on the stuff I've been learning about dog behavior, because, well, it's awesome.

While all my research into dogs and their physical characteristics started me on some interesting trails, things became fun when I started studying the behavior of Brockle vs. the behavior of different breeds.

There are other factors involved here, mainly learned behaviors that came from his previous environment and interactions with people.

He's a walking, barking, shedding knot of nature vs. nurture.

Brockle and I met when I went to our local animal shelter to look at a female catahoula leopard dog. I wanted a female, because I think they are easier than males and I'm not a fan of marking. I'm aware all male dogs don't mark in the house, but it's a pretty standard behavior that comes with rescue dogs and I was planning on skipping that particular PIA.

Parkinson's is a disease that demands walking, lots of it. My dogs were older, sedentary, and perfectly content to stay curled on the couch instead of hiking in bad weather. I decided I wanted a younger dog who would offer a training challenge and would demand lots of exercise.

Boy howdy, talk about getting the dog you need.

I paused at a kennel with a beautiful large fluffy dog. He was stressed, but calm, looked straight into my eyes and very clearly said, "Hey, you, get me the hell out of here."

He was riveting. I never made it to the catahoula.

When we met he was brought in by a volunteer who proceeded to show me how nicely he sat, laid down and ate treats.

I think I hurt her feelings when I asked her to stop with the tricks and let me observe him on his own.

He paced around the small enclosure a few times, thoroughly sniffed the people he didn't know and politely tolerated the kidlet while she petted and played with him. I sat on my hands and watched.

He sat in front of me and stared straight into my eyes again. He didn't look away and it was slightly unnerving. I know this is supposed to be a dominant or aggressive trait, but that wasn't the vibe he gave. He was talking to me, as clear and straight as he could, and sizing me up at the same time. I read intensity, exhaustion, confusion and a question I wasn't sure how to answer.

He must have answered it himself, because he came to me and laid down with a sigh, his back against my legs like he had always been there. I was hooked.

When I applied to adopt him I was warned. He was a three time loser. Adopted out as a stray at three months, returned at ten months for eating a couch and chewing his way out of an apartment THROUGH THE WALL, all in the same day. Then he was adopted again, by a large active family, this time he lasted 12 hours before he was returned. The only explanation was "He's horrible, awful and needs to be put down." He was sent to the shelter's rehab for training, and returned a failure. He had dog aggression issues and wouldn't behave on a leash.

"I have time, and if I need help, I'll get it," I said.

I had my new boy.

Because of his speckled face he was named Brockle. It's a cowboy thing.

This is a brockle faced cow.

His bones were prominent under his beautifully groomed coat. He only weighed 47 pounds. He was fine with our family, both dogs and humans. Although he glued himself to my leg, he was gentle with both Jim and I, and careful not to upset our precarious balance.

He watched me constantly, seeking and holding eye contact as long as I would return it. Our first walk together went so well I took him off leash at the neighborhood off leash area. His joy was intense and he came to me the instant I called.

I couldn't understand what the problem was. He was awesome. Well, except for attempting to hump every person and dog in the house on his first night with us. But that cute trick had been dispensed with immediately and it took three days to get him to eat. I still felt we were truly on our way.

What I failed to realize on our first outing was that we hadn't seen any other dogs. The first time we crossed paths with another dog, Brockle launched through the air with a terrible snarl. 

I am strong. I can wrestle down an unbroke 4-year-old draft cross with one arm, a halter and longe line. 

Brockle pulled off my feet. I had to pull myself up the leash hand over hand and lay on him before he stopped. No, I wasn't doing the Cesar/Mosquito Monks alpha roll, it was all I could do to get him to stop trying to kill that dog. 

A week later I called a pro.

I had my project.

So.

Here's what I've learned about my dog.

He's a brainiac. I'm not bragging, he freaks me out a little. I'll give three quick examples. 

#1. This morning, when I took the dogs out, I realized I didn't have my coffee. It was 5:30 am, still dark, I was groggy and not amused. I searched for 15 minutes.

Brockle pickd up that I was searching for something and offered me his ball, his duck, and his rope. I said, no, I want my coffee each time.

He started sniffing here and there, being especially thorough on the places I had been.

I finally found my coffee. 

I said, "There's my coffee!!"

I can guarantee, the next time I start looking for my lost coffee he will take me to it, because that's how he rolls.

#2. I took him to my amazingly awesome vet to check him for a sore back. She had found part of the problem but needed to explore his back leg. He was getting stressed (he doesn't like to be handled by anybody but me) so she stopped for a bit.

"I'll give him a break before I check his hamstring and leg," she said.

Brockle backed into the corner (she sits on the floor with them instead of using a table) placed his butt firmly against the wall and hid his hind leg.

"He understands words," she said.

"Yes he does," I replied.

"I mean, he understands me."

"Yep."

#3. Brockle eavesdrops when I'm on the phone. If it's my mother, Suzy or Kathy, all walking buddies, he stays and listens. If he hears them say (or spell) walk or go, or out, he watches out the front window until they arrive. We say round object instead of ball and hike instead of walk, because he understands the spelling of both.  

He's very high drive and has been diagnosed with OCD. When I got him he was self mutilating. That has stopped. Dribbling his tennis ball on the tile floor for hours at a time has not.

He's loves obedience work, I mean loooovveeess it.

When I first began to realize how smart he is, I immediately thought about border collies (BC). Thing is, he doesn't herd or nip heels.Not even a little. He doesn't slink, crouch or sneak either.

He's a head up, chest out, charging kind of guy.

He draws a perimeter around me and Charlie and guards it. Nobody is allowed in.When we are at protection practice he will attack an approaching bad guy (decoy) with everything he's got. If it's a fleeing bad guy, he will chase him to his chosen perimeter and stop. He won't leave me to catch a criminal. It's not his job.

Every night he does his "night bark." He stands in the back yard and barks for about 10 minutes. It's a steady warning bark. Deep, serious and calm. If we don't give him this time, he's anxious and restless until he gets it.

He spends his life at my side. When I walk through the house, he walks with me, usually with his nose touching my leg. He doesn't leave, ever. If he is accidentally let out of the house or yard, he lays on the porch by the front door.

Brockle doesn't cower, no matter how mad he's made me. When I yell at him he immediately makes puzzled eye contact and steps closer. He takes no shit. I've touched him in anger once. His response was to look me in the eyes, pee on the ground and kick dirt everywhere, staring at me the whole time.

I told my trainer and he said,"Then don't do that."

I've since learned that some dogs consider themselves partners, not subordinates. If they feel unfairly treated they have been known to turn on their handler. If these dogs are pushed with severe discipline they step straight into fight, not flight. It turns out it's an actual gene that creates this response. It makes a dog move forward into fear instead of back away. It appears Brockle carries this gene.

It's not that he won't accept discipline. I refocus him with work, one task or many, until we're back on track. If I'm unhappy with him he'll bust his butt to figure out what I want and then do it. He'll accept a snap of the leash and "Leave it!" just fine. I seriously doubt he'd accept being kicked, jerked repeatedly or punched.

Brockle has taken it upon himself to take care of me. When I'm tired he tries to guide me to the car, away from the stove, or back home mid-hike. Stupid PD makes my blood pressure plummet when I over do it. Brockle knows it's going on before I do and coaxes me into sitting down. He helps me up the stairs, off the couch and out of bed. If I fall he lets me use him to get back up. 

I don't suggest you punch me or break into my house, but he is now considered a happy friendly dog. Protection and obedience training completely turned him around.

He's devoted. His focus on me is so intense he won't learn from my trainer. HMT has to teach me how to teach him. He can't just take the leash and teach him because he's too intent on me to listen. He said he's only met one other dog in his career that wouldn't work for him. He stands between me and every single person who approaches.

He's kind of a dickhead. He likes to dawdle over breakfast and dinner, guarding the kitchen and not allowing the dogs to pass. He likes to roll small dogs at the park, part of why he stays on leash unless he's working. He argues with me, vocalizing with a loud "Rowr, rowr, rowwr, when he disagrees with my decision. He body blocks the kidlet so she can't touch me (or at least tries).

He is happier on a leash than off, unless we're working. If he doesn't have a focus off leash he gets nervous and runs from me to Charlie, over and over until he's exhausted. He sniffs only to identify and track an animal, mainly the predators that frequent my neighborhood. He rarely stops to mark.

He is not food motivated unless there's another dog with us who is.

He has, however, become incredibly well behaved and loves to learn. He walks on a loose leash, ignores other dogs, looks to me for an OK before he becomes aggressive, either with decoys at practice or stupid men who reach out to pet him or do anything to make me nervous. Again, it's a bad idea to try to punch me. He successfully worked off leash yesterday with dogs around and never lost focus.

He doesn't bother livestock, chickens, ducks, sheep, goats etc. Horses worry him, there was an incident, but that's a story for another day. Once I'm on, he goes back to the car. Not so good with cats.

He's 2 1/2 now and still growing, both height and width. 

I learned that all Belgian shepherds and particularly the malinois often carry the "never back down" gene.

Livestock Guardian dogs (LGD), Great Pyrenees, Anatolian Shepherds, and Kuvasz  all guard their perimeter over chasing down intruders. They won't leave their flock. 

The only dog I've heard vocalize like him are GSD. 

Collies were crossed with sight hounds back in the day to make them pointier and elegant.

GSD are known for their obsessive devotion and need to touch their person. 

He doesn't have dew claws, unless they were removed as a puppy.

In town, the mutts crosses tend to be pits, rotts, chihuahuas, labs and heelers.

East of town in cowboy central, LGD, heelers, BC, working terriers and sight hounds, (mostly greyhounds and whippets) malinois, GSD are pretty common, and all the crazy crosses that can result.

Sport dogs are popular here, with a lot of crosses between sight hounds, terriers, BC and protection type breeds being made to compete in agility and fly ball. Coyote dogs (aggressive lurchers bred to hunt and kill coyotes) are not unheard of.

Whatever he is, he's become an amazing partner and definitely keeps me on my toes. It's going to be fun to see what his DNA tells me.

WTH is Brockle?

Yes. I'm at it again.

The DNA test is being processed, so I'll quit boring you with my obsession soon.
After I did all that DNA study I was OK with the potential results on Brockle. Unless he is a combination of 175 breeds in the first couple generations, the results should give me an idea or three of who he is.

This craziness is my trainers fault. Yes, HMT, you. The first time we met, he immediately started evaluating (playing) with my new dog.

"He's cool," HMT said. "What is he?"

"The pound said he was a collie/GSD cross," I replied.

"Hmmm," he said.

A few minutes later, the eternally patient, awesome trainer in her own right, and retired due to injury wife of HMT, Saint B, drove by on her way to town. She stopped to say "Hi."

"Hey, Saint B, check out our new client, Brockle," HMT said.

"Oooh, he's kinda cool," Saint B said."What is he?"

"The pound told her he was collie and GSD."

"No he's not. Maybe collie...healer? I don't know, but he's not a shepherd."

"Why?" I asked.

"His color," Saint B said. "It's recessive. GSD coloring is extremely dominant. If there's any shepherd in there it's a few generations back."

And so began the mystery of my dog.

 I did quite a bit of research into dominant and recessive traits (genes).

As usual, keep in mind this is my very unscientific mind at work.

Basics are, if it's a recessive trait it's as weak as an inbred Italian Greyhound. In order for a recessive trait to appear it has to be crossed with another animal that carries the same trait.

Brockle's mostly white, piebald, orangish coat is recessive. So both parents would need to carry a gene for this color.

A dominant trait is all JRT. It only needs to be in one parent to appear. And then it kicks some ass.
Recessive traits can be pure evil, hanging around for generations and hiding in the shadows, until another like recessive enters the gene pool then BAMMO! you've got cleft palates, bulgy eyes, Brachycephalic Airway Syndrome...

This is where my research took me.

Here's some dog data.

Brockle's "smooshy" face

He definitely doesn't have GSD legs.
Brockle measures 27 inches at the shoulder.
He weighs 72 pounds.
The vet would like him to be closer to 80 pounds, but he's a light eater.
He has a long, fluffy double coat which he blows twice a year. In between he's a light shedder.
His ears are so big I have trouble getting them to fit in a head shot.
His color is described as tipped sable piebald with ticking and a black mask.
His head is narrow, he has a clearly defined stop and he's pretty jowly for a long nosed dog.

He's really tall.

GSD - 23-26 inches
Rough Collie-22-26
Doberman - 24 - 28
Borzoi - 26-28
Anatolian Shepherd - 29-32
Malinois - 24-26
Border Collie -19-22
Australian Cattle Dog - 18-20
Australian Shepherd - 20-23

He has fine bones.
Long oval feet, the middle toes extend way past the outside ones.

He is very fast. We clocked him at 37 mph on a recall. I'm pretty sure he would be faster if he was in prey mode. He runs like this:

Lurchers left, Brockles left

His ears have a distinctive shape.

Panda Shepherd

Belgian Shepherd (Trevuren)

His tail is interesting...

Anatolian Shepherd

borzoi

rough collie

as is his body type.

His color keeps causing problems.
Australian Cattle Dogs immediately come to mind. Their size, build, and attitude just don't add up. Still, I see a lot of dogs called heelers that could. Maybe.

Purebred Australian Cattle Dog

Shepherd/Heeler mix

So...remembering that I need a recessive gene from both parents to get a recessive trait, but only one gene from one parent to get a dominant trait...

Recessive traits:
Prick ears
Long hair
piebald coloring
ticking
White collies are the result of either to white parents or two white factored parents.The color is inherited independently of the dominant sable.



Dominant traits:
drop ears
short hair
Black Mask - this is interesting, short noses (brachycephalic dogs) are recessive and begin to disappear within one generation when out-crossed with dogs with regular noses, many of these breeds have masks. Technically, Brockle could have some Boxer back there somewhere).
Sable color
double coats
black and tan

Plush coat GSD and Brockle

That's the end of my physical meanderings. Next, I'm going to talk about his behaviors...it gets really interesting. 

Brockle the Perv

I'll wrestle you for it.

I have a new vet. She's a DVM who changed paths, or should I say opened new ones. Her practice covers holistic health, acupuncture, behavioral medicine, herbal medicine and massage as alternatives to traditional medicine. Go ahead, check her out, (http://healingpathvet.com/).

I met her when Snocone received an end-of-the-road sentence from my traditional vet. I asked about acupuncture, I was put in contact with Dr. Pearson, and Snocone is alive and extremely well.

That's another story for another day.

Dr. Pearson has met Brockle. I was worried about his teeth. He is weird about food, among many other things, and being  the practical person I am I took him to have his teeth checked. Dr. Pearson got to meet Brockle, who has a perfectly healthy set of chompers. After our consultation, she pointed out he is OCD as can be. Again, another story, another day.

Dr. Pearson has urged me to write about his odd behaviors, his wicked high intelligence, his anxieties, and the different things I try to help him cope. She thinks he is a fascinating dog.

As you know, so do I, but now I have back up. If I'm going to catalog my dog, what better place than here?

There's your background, and here's the side of my bouncing boy I'd like to share today.

Brockle is a perv.

I am completely anthropomorphizing here. If I'm going to stay politically correct and within the proper world of dog behavior, it's more like this. Brockle has a strong attraction to concentrated areas of human odor. It is a strong plus in his scent work. His big, damp, intrusive, sensitive, nose can hone in on every scent loaded area of the human body from across a room. If I was willing, he would trade a good snuffle as a reward for treats, his ball, the world.

It's hard to stay PC with Brockle and his nose. I'm telling you, the dog is a creeper. He wants to bury his nose, not just in every crotch he meets, but in arm pits, elbow pits, knee pits and behind the ear. I'm not talking a gentle whiff here. I'm talking getting stabbed by that giant proboscis, then having him roll it around while he snorts and snuffles.

Getting a good knee pit fix isn't enough. If he's allowed that first snuffle, then he begins to lick. His pupils get big. He licks harder. He drapes his head over your arm, leg, whatever fits and push hard. Then, he'll hook a front leg over and he'll head for oh, a belly button, or traces of boob sweat. Nose, snuffle, lick, move on. The front legs get a better grip, then BANG! Brockle's humping.

Brockle landed at the  pound three times. Once after he was picked up as a three-month-old stray, again at 10 months, after the adopter returned him for eating a couch and an apartment wall, and again after only twelve hours, and  those adopters wouldn't give any reason beyond, "He's a  horrible, horrible dog!"

I'm pretty sure I understand why he didn't last even a day with that last family. He systematically tried to hump every member of my household during his first twelve hours with us. Repeatedly. Brockle really had no concept of boundaries.

I straightened that one out quickly, but he is very much on the make most of the time. His drive by lick my sticky spots is pretty stinking gross.

I also warn people adamantly, to not let him lean or push against them, and for God's sake, don't let him start sniffing. Or give him an enthusiastic body scratch, or believe it when he says, "C'mon, let's wrestle."

I met a friend at a local horse show last weekend. The dogs were by my feet and a pleasant little boy stopped by to pet them. He was really into Brockle. They got on well, my dog was being polite and having fun, and the kid seemed to know his dogs.

When he asked if he could play with him on the grass, I said "Sure." They would be right in front of me and Brockle was wanting to play with this kid in a bad way. Since I have a tough time getting him peeled off my side for even a second, I was happy to see him want to play with someone new.

The local club was sponsoring an extreme cowboy event. It's a sport I don't know much about, but is very interesting, so I was into the action.

I heard a muffled, "Urgh."

Then Brockle panting.

Then, "Oof.'

I turned and there, to my horrified amazement, was that poor little kid, flat on his back, with my wildly humping dog wrapped around him like a mummy sleeping bag.

"Brockle, leave it." I shouted.

He did, but the smirk on his smarmy face made it hard to give him a "Good boy."

The dazed kid got up, swaying slightly, but on his feet.

"Boy, is he strong," he said.

"I am really sorry, I should have kept a better eye on him," I said.

Brockle's tail waved gently, he cocked his head and watched as his new little friend walked out of his life forever. His tail drooped , he sighed. I leaned down to give him a scratch. His head whipped around and he licked my elbow pit. My dog is a perv.

Brockle Let's Me Know He is Ready For Scent Work

I try to stay positive.
Brockle and I went to protection practice.
Dog after beautiful dog worked like a maniac.
Steady, focused, they would have worked all day if they could.
Then it was our turn.

Bad guy! There's the bad guy!

I chomp bad guys!

You better run! And your mama too!

Re-engage

Whoa there, bad guy, just a sec...

Dude. Can't you smell that?

There's something really smelly around here.

Um, Janet? He's not listening.

Seriously, tell the bad guy to cool it. OK?

"Are you shittin' me?" asks the bad guy.

Here, I found it.

Week old dog treat, a little moldy....nom, nom, nom.

OK. Back to business.

Chomp!

Good dog. Sigh.

Going to the Dogs

My dog adventures are great fun, full of new experiences, lots of food for thought, and making me let go of concepts and preconceived notions I didn't even know I had.

Brockle continues to amaze me with his terrifying intelligence, deep devotion, determination to guard me from all of my woes, and his high, high energy. He is also about twenty kinds of butt-head.

A classic example is happening right now. He wants the dog bed next to my chair. It's currently occupied by my daughter's 10-month-old Swiss Mountain Dog. He is not allowed to bully or harass the other dogs in the house. So, he's sitting on her head. He will keep this up, backing his hairy butt onto her and the bed, until she moves.

Another favorite is how he gets me away from the computer and out back to play or to feed the pack. I won't acknowledge the dogs if they bug me. They don't get fed, let out, nothing, unless they are being quiet. It works well enough, but, being the space-cadet I am, I've been known to lose track of the time and forget them.  When Brockle has had enough, he wakes up Snocone. Snocone is our vague, sweet, Mill Dog. She is a Maltese, a whopping six pounds of gentle fluffy kindness. She also has to pee the second she wakes up. Life jammed in a cat carrier having litter after litter of puppies didn't do much for her bladder control. Brockle knows I will pick her up and take her outside as soon as she gets up. Once I'm up and out, he also knows I'll feed them or play with them. A quiet nose poke in Snocone's belly gets him exactly what he wants.
The rotter.

HMT (Heavy Metal Trainer) continues to help me on the road to getting and keeping control of my boy. His enthusiasm and confidence in who we can become buoys me up when I doubt my ability, and his feel and timing while handling a dog just lights me up. I want the same feel with a dog that I have with a horse, watching HMT and his equally talented wife work a dog, well, it's got me all fired up.

When I decided I needed professional help with Brockle I knew I wanted to explore Positive Reinforcement Training, and I also held firmly to my belief that dogs needed firm boundaries. HMT turned out to be exactly the right combination.

It took me a little to get on board. I was (am still) very quiet with my dogs. I'll give them a squinty eyed smile when they're good and an ear scratch. I had never used treats, because my dog training experience came from my Dad, a solid hunting dog trainer, who doesn't want his dogs to equate doing their job (retrieving dead ducks) with eating. I always followed his logic, just because that's how we did it.

Enter HMT.

"Hi Brockle!" He bellows, and the treats begin to flow."What a good dog! What a great dog! How are you today?"

Brockle adores him.

HMT wants dogs to feel life with their handler is the best party on the planet. He keeps things short, to the point, and each step forward is met with wild enthusiasm and plenty of goodies.

He immediately took me to task for my miserly approach to rewards.

"I want to see big smiles, total body petting and up the volume on that praise. Quit being so stingy with those treats!"

My face almost cracked with all that smiling.

He is just as clear with correction. HMT  is comfortable using a prong or e-collar, when used correctly and  if it's necessary. A dog needs to understand he has to obey. It's how we keep them safe. The key is to be fair with a correction. It needs to be to the point, brief, and correctly timed.

Brockle's dog aggression was nipped quickly and efficiently by making him understand "Leave it!" means just that. Right now, this very second, he needs to stop what he's doing and come to me. Period. After all, I'm where the party is.
It took some time in the prong collar to make Brockle understand the importance of the "Leave It" command
and again for "Off!" Not nagging at him, not picking, not engaging the collar at all until he was one step into ignoring me. Then the repercussions were swift, followed by an immediate, "Good leave it!" and another shower of treats.

He wasn't traumatized, he has never tucked his tail, cringed or tried to bolt when he's been corrected. He did pitch a few screaming temper tantrums, looking straight into my eyes, jumping up and down, careful not to hit the end of the leash, yet telling me exactly how he felt about me and that freaking collar. However, he has begun to listen. The eternal treat shower has eased, instead, he works like a maniac for the bounce of a tennis ball. I save treats for learning new maneuvers. It's awesome. Brockle isn't perfect. We still have set backs. But he hasn't needed a prong induced correction in months and he's making huge leaps forward in obedience and protection work, both on and off leash.

I spend a lot of time thinking about how their doggy minds work. I have read quite a few books on speaking "dog," reading their body language and cleaning up our communication by seeing things from the dog's point of view.

It has helped me enormously, and given me a background reference to draw from while I study my own pack at home and the dogs at our weekly Schutzhund practice (oh yeah, we're that cool). I watch the dance of submission and dominance between them, and as long as there is no violence, they can have at it.

I dance the same dance with Brockle. He is a great big bossy pants. My ever faithful, ever aggrieved rat terrier, Charlie, tried to warn me. He likes to point it out periodically. Because of my reading, watching, listening and thinking, I understand Brockle's habit of draping his head over my chest when I'm lying down, then, when I raise my hand to pet him, curling his giant wonking alligator head over my arm and crushing it against him is not a "hug" but a statement over who's in charge. But it isn't a constant with us.

When I'm stressed he guards me against everything. He lays on the floor, in front of my couch or chair, lengthwise, facing out, his back touching my feet or the chair.
He stands the same way, just touching my knees, when people approach, or other dogs go by, if I'm really having a bad day he will attempt to body block the stove, the sinkful of dishes...

I was told (NOT by HMT), he was being too dominant. He was essentially hoarding me. Except, when I'm in a better place, he isn't the same. He's relaxed, teasing, begging to play. I think Brockle understands my need for personal space.

When I met Brockle at our local pound, he convinced me we needed each other with his direct gaze -- head up, straight into my eyes, without flinching, or looking away. He made this contact with me after I finally convinced the volunteer to quit showing me how he would sit, lay down and shake, over and over again. I sat back, without trying to touch or talk to him, just to watch and see who he was. He was friendly and calm, greeted both Kidlette and I with more nose action than I like, but amiable enough. A few nervous laps around the room and he came over to me. Zap! We made that slightly unnerving, deep eye contact and he didn't let go. He sat down, still staring deep into my black heart, and wagged his tail slowly from side to side. After a few hours of this (OK, probably 30 seconds) he lay down at my feet, and that was that. No more volunteer, no more Kidlette, just me.

From my reading, and a drive evaluation we did on him, this behavior is typical of a highly dominant dog. He was demanding I get him the hell out of there. He claimed me when he lay at my feet. He wasn't trying to talk to me, he was telling me how things were going to be. If I go by the book, he is the dog the pet coordinator tried to warn me off of. He really was the couch eating, twice returned, Camp Bow Wow failure they tried to save me from.

Here's the thing. Some of this information rings true. Within our pack, Brockle wants to run the show. He does not respond to direction coming from anyone but me. His focus on me is so strong, HMT has found it quicker to teach me to teach him. Normally he would demonstrate a new behavior with the dog, then turn him over. Brockle really likes HMT, he thinks he's the bees knees, but he becomes anxious, continually checking back with me and trying to meet my gaze, when he's working with him. He never shifts his focus.

BUT. He will obey other people once he understands it's what I want. He loooovvvveees obedience work. He understands I don't want him to crowd people who come in our door, and doesn't, unlike the other miscreants in our house, who need to be reminded again and again. He doesn't chase or bother geese, goats, cattle, horses or chickens, because I told him not to. He doesn't trip, crowd or rush past me. The same goes for my husband, but not Kidlette. Kidlette is steady on her feet, he treats her like a sibling.

Brockle wants, very much, to not only make me happy, but to help me. He leans into me and braces to help me out of my chair or off the floor. He guides me up and down stairs, always ready to help me balance. He intuits my moods to the point of not eating when I'm sad, teasing me into a walk when I'm grumpy and laying perfectly still for hours on the days when I have nothing left. This is not a dog who is trying to tell me what to do.

I don't think we give dogs enough credit. I think they understand us so much more than the dog psychology books say. They have spent the last 32,000 years reading us, figuring us out and trying to make us happy. I'm guessing they get us way beyond us getting them. You can't convince me they don't understand our hugs are affection, not an attempt to be the "big dog." Why else would they so eagerly crowd into our embrace? They accept our weird quirks, and don't care if we won't smell their butts or lick their teeth. They love us anyway.

I also wonder if they laugh at our crude attempts to speak "dog." I bet we're shouting, or have huge speech impediments, or both. We probably just crack them up.

Our First Schutzhund

• 
  

  If you guys ever bust me making fun of someone who doesn't understand "horse speak," feel free to slap me around, OK?

  Brockle and I had our debut with the Schutzhund group out at HMT's place today.

  Here I was, wading into a whole new experience, with a group of people as dog crazy as we are horsaii. They were laughing and talking about bites and stuff. Yes, bites, not bits. I think. I'm not sure, because it's like I'd been dropped into a foreign country, and didn't bring my translation book. Everybody smiled and was friendly as can be, but I didn't understand a word they were saying.

  I did get that I parked in the wrong spot. I didn't bring my chair, or a crate for Brockle. Of course, I don't have a crate for Brockle. My leash is nylon, not leather, and too short. I am such a geek.

  Nobody actually says anything, they're being nice to the newby after all, but boy, do I flash back to the first time I was hanging out with the wranglers at Mark Reynor Stables.

  I was 12 and newly invited to join the Mark Reynor Stables Drill Team. I was a real cowboy now. I had worked my way through their beginning to advanced riding classes -- you know, walk, walk faster, jog, trot, trot faster-- got my first set of spurs, and was sent to Donna's Brokn' Spoke to buy a bandanna western shirt and a white straw hat. Our drill team would perform at the Pikes Peak or Bust Rodeo. I had hit the big time!

  I leaned back on the benches, waiting to be assigned my horse. I kicked my legs out, my high water jeans riding high enough to admire my shiny spurs, my boot tops and about 3 inches of white sock. Ah, yeah, this was the good life, if I had a piece of hay, I'd a chewed on it.

  "Did you see that rank old gelding cut loose?" One of the wranglers said to another.

  I felt smug, I knew what a gelding was.

  "Well, if he hadn't a flanked him he wouldn't have gone to pitching."

  "I heard he galled him last ride, that was why he got tossed."

  "Probably that too, but the real problem is that horse is a yellow dun."

  They laughed.

  Say what?

  "You know how those yellow horses are."

  "Yup."

  "Yup."

  I was floored. I had no idea what those worldly 16-year-old boys were talking about. I knew nothing. Absolutely nothing. I could have crawled into the nearest feed tub and died.

  Now here we were, me and my big, hairy mutt, hanging with the wranglers again. Oh well.

  Brockle had to go into a borrowed wire kennel, which he had no intention of doing.

  "Let him meet everybody," someone said, and immediately the entire group began talking away to him in great big, cheerful voices.

  Brockle hid behind my legs.

  "Wow, he's shy," somebody said.

  "He's afraid of men."

  HMT snorted, but left me hanging. Brockle ran to him and did a cringy kind of happy dance. You'd think I beat him 10 times a day.

  "He's usually pretty outgoing," I managed. Then I immediately wondered if I had said something stupid.

  I asked him to get in the kennel and he braced all four legs hard, rolled his eye at me and looked at me with real horror. Poor Brockle, he was sure he was going to be groomed, or dumped, or fed to dragons...So I shoved him in, shut the door and leaned against the bars. He got a little wild eyed and started to growl. I turned my back and stayed close.

  "Tap the wire when he starts to growl," HMT said.

  I tapped it a little, still feeling sorry for him.

  HMT frowned, "Now tell him to knock it off. Like you mean it!"

  Brockle stopped growling. He's been feeding off my namby pambiness. Dang it.

  The first dog came out with Bianca,the other half of Cool K9's Dog Training, and HMT's wife. This was a serious dog. Heavy boned, good looking, no sense of humor AT ALL, he went through his paces with a lot of encouragement from Bianca. It was clear he thought he was getting gypped practicing obedience instead of getting to bite somebody. Brockle watched him as closely as I did and seemed to appreciate being in the kennel a little more.

  The dogs kept coming, one by one, sometimes leashed and controlled, sometimes loose and social, all of them lit up like it was Christmas at the prospect of protection practice.

  The sequence was pretty much the same, but the levels of technique changed with every dog. First, the dog would hang out with us folks for a few minutes. Everybody would pet on him and admire him. These dogs have class, they don't get all wiggly and start grinning, they know how awesome they are and just absorb the adoration like it's their due.

  Then, their handler -- Bianca, HMT or the owner-- would snap on a long, leather lead attached to a big thick collar. The dog's demeanor would change with each step into the field. Their intent and focus would become very clear and I was suddenly glad I wasn't trying to sneak over the back fence.

  One of the guys that had been playing with the dog just seconds ago, would put on a heavy protective sleeve and head on out. The handler would turn into a post, bracing against the pull of the dog.

  The guy with his arm in the sleeve also had a whip. He turned into OZ's scarecrow on crank, cracking the whip, jumping and dancing, teasing the dog into all kinds of excitement. Pretty soon, he came within range, the dog lunged and ripped the guys arm off.

  The peanut gallery erupted into cheers and shouts of "Good dog!"

  The dog then strutted around, shaking the heavy protective sleeve like a squeaky toy, tail wagging, and letting his hair down like a good shepherd should.

  The bad guy suddenly turns into Mr. Rogers and plopped down in a chair. The GSD turned back into a friendly dog, played with the former bad guy a little, everybody petted the dog and told him/her how great he is and it's "NEXT!"

  The entire time they're talking in that crazy "doggieze," and I don't understand a word of it.

  Brockle did.

  He was amazed. He would watch the dogs work, watch the "bad guy," look at me with complete amazement, then watch some more.

  His nose quivered, his pupils grew like a werewolf moon and he whined, just a little. Not a worried whine, but an eager one. This whole thing made complete sense to him.

  Then, it was his turn. He was getting to work with Jim, one of the best "bad guys" around, a great way for him to get started.

  Brockle came out of the kennel, much more social than the last time, met everybody, they all told him how awesome he was, and Bianca ran him through some of his obedience stuff (I thought he was awesome). He peed on some bushes, everybody cheered for him, He scratched the ground and they all cheered again. Absolutely crazy. I could see him swell up with confidence and fun. He looked up at me, completely stoked and ready.

  I led him out to the field and became a post.

  The bad guy came out with the puppy killer dog training tool, a long, jointed tug,and immediately turned into somebody else. His eyes glowed with malice, his body language screamed "Stranger Danger!" and he snaked that tug like a live thing through the grass. 

  Bad Guy started hissing, OMG, parsel tongue! whipped through my mind, and Brockle ducked behind me. 

  "Dude," Brockle said. 

  I swear, it's the truth, he really said it, I heard him. 

  "Dude. Let's go have a beer and talk this thing out." 

  Brockle stayed behind me, watching Bad Guy, watching the toy, watching me...

  His head going click,click, click.

  Then he feinted just a little at the toy.

  HMT yells, "Praise him!"

  Oops, I thought I was a post ... "Good dog!"

  Bad Guy was already back at work. He tossed that toy, drug it back and forth, teased closer and closer...Brockle finally jumped forward, hit the end of the leash, hard, and cut loose with one, single, pretty impressive BARK! 

  Immediately, Bad Guy turned into the smiling, friendly, open man Brockle had met ten minutes earlier.

  "That's it! Good Dog!" He shouted.

  "Good Dog!" The peanut gallery joined in.

  I even remembered, "Good dog!"

  Brockle looked a little startled, kind of confused, but in short order, was playing with the Bad Guy and running around, peeing on stuff and collecting his praise. Then he went into his kennel, plopped down with a satisfied smirk and settled in to watch the rest of the dogs.

  I got two thumbs up from HMT. I almost wiggled and grinned, but caught myself. We're Schutzhund cool now, me and Brockle, we don't grovel. I gave him a cool Clint Eastwood nod of thanks instead.

  I might not be catching all the names or the language yet, and I spit every time I try one of those German sounding commands, but Brockle gets it, 100%. He never approached another dog, off or on leash, or gave me any cause for concern. He stayed focused, intent and had an absolute blast. He'll get me up to speed. 

  
  
• 
  
  

  
  

  
  

  "You may say a cat uses good grammar. Well, a cat does -- but you let a cat get excited once; you let a cat get to pulling fur with another cat on a shed, nights, and you'll hear grammar that will give you the lockjaw. Ignorant people think it's the noise which fighting cats make that is so aggravating, but it ain't so; it's the sickening grammar they use." - Mark Twain, A Tramp Abroad