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.

Tally, Me and the Big K

Sonita shifted under me, snapped her tail and swung her head. Her irritation was clear, I didn't need the white ringed eye roll to get the point, but she honored me with it anyway.

 Stupid bitch, I thought, but straightened up and slid my butt back to the middle of my saddle. It occurred to me she probably muttered the exact same thing as she reminded me, for the 1000th time, how much she hated it when I rested with my weight crooked and a leg slung over the saddle horn. I touched her neck in apology and she relaxed.

"She did absolutely nothing?" K asked.

"Yep, after all that fuss to get her saddled, once I got a leg over, Tally just rode off like a broke horse. She was so relaxed I started thinking she was relieved to get it behind her and get back to work," I said.

"She probably was. If she was a mustang mare, stolen by some young, ignorant stud -- well, she'd be ready to make his life hell, even if she couldn't get back to her herd. Then, when her stallion showed up, put the upstart back in his place and stole her back, she'd be pretty shook up. Mares don't like having their lives shook up like that. She would probably be on the prod with him too. One he put her back in her place, well, she's be relieved to fall back into patterns she understood."

I thought about that for a bit. It made sense. A lot more than the boarding stable crowd's current opinion.
"She's a one woman horse," they said, and "Janet just has a "touch."

"Those nimrods have Tim about convinced he isn't "horse whispery" enough," I complained. They're telling him to try that Parrelli shit to get in touch with her soul, or heart, or some such shit."

"Don't get all pissy with them," K warned, "they have a point."

"Say what?"

"You've worked out a compromise with Tally. You don't do things that upset her, you ride her quiet and you make damn sure you stay soft, in the middle and are clear. She trusts you, so she goes to work. If you scared her like that crowd at Tim's place, well, she'd be fighting you too."

"So? Isn't that the point?" If I had a tail I'd would have snapped it.

"The point is," K was getting that look on his face, if I didn't quit whining and start trying harder to hear him, he was going to quit talking, "Tim can't do the same thing. His weight shifts, his hands flop around, he miscues her, he can't help it, he hasn't ridden long enough. His greeness is making Tally mad. It's going to get him hurt."

"I'm trying to show him, help him read her, but it just doesn't work."

"Maybe he'll get it eventually, but probably not."

"What should I do?"

"You have to quit being careful. You have to dig deep into that mare, pull out all her stuff and deal with it. You ride her in a way that avoids her tough spots. Tim can't. If you don't smooth them out for him he's going to get hurt. Your job is to turn Tally into a horse he can ride, not to turn him into a rider that can stick Tally."

Wow. I started feeling sick to my stomach. What had I done? I had sold this stick of dynamite to my client, full of confidence I could teach him what it took to ride her. My eternal opinion that if a gomer like me could do it, anybody could do it, wasn't true. My lack of confidence was misplaced. I realized, deep down, I was afraid of Tally. I didn't know if I could handle her without compromise. That was my weakness. That was where the lie was. I had sold a green rider a horse I wasn't sure I truly had a  handle on.

"What's going on?" K asked, his voice was gentle and his eyes were kind.

"I think I'm going to have to step up."

"I think you're right."

Shit. I fought down a feeling of panic and moved Sonita out on a circle. She picked up my anxiety and gave me a few dolphin bucks, one, two, three...each was getting harder, higher, stronger...I settled my weight, picked up my reins and scooted her forward. She leveled out and we went to work.

2014

When I began this blog a lifetime ago, I was a disgruntled, burnt-out horse trainer. I wasn't the best horse trainer  to ever hit the ground and I wasn't the worst, not by a long shot.

I was, however, questioning every aspect of what I was doing. When I had begun training in earnest, I had already had my arm amputated because of a ten-year battle with cancer. I was the single mother of a little girl, crazy determined to keep her with me while I struggled to make a living, because the previous ten years had shown me, we needed to live every single moment while I made that living.

When "horse trainer" became the job description on my tax returns, it was because of circumstance and a leap of faith. I fell into a part time job giving riding lessons at a small boarding stable in Green Mountain Falls. I jumped at the chance, divorce had separated me from my beloved horses for two years, and here was an opportunity to get back into the life that defined who I was, before cancer and bad choices had spun everything out of control.

Before many months had passed I was earning more giving lessons than I was at my two other jobs, as a restaurant manager and children's book illustrator. I was getting horses in training, in spite of having to completely relearn how to function with a prosthetic. It was exciting, addictive and my daughter was with me. Lucky for both of us, she was a little horse nut too, so as my business grew I was able to decide to go full time, and fulfill a life long dream -- become a horse trainer.

I also immediately learned a few things. I had been a "pro" for many years, I just didn't know it. My previous life with horses had involved a lot of riding and some help along the way from a few kick butt trainers. People would ask me to ride their horses, help their kids, lead a 4-H group, and pay me for it. I started giving lessons to neighborhood kids when I was seventeen as a way to cover my horse bills, had a knack for it and kept it up. I had no clue this made me a professional, I would have told you I just rode for people and giving lessons was a lot easier than babysitting.

I also learned I didn't know nuttin.'

The world of horse shows had changed beyond recognition. Pleasure horses, cow horses and barrel horses were different breeds, all still  flying under the AQHA banner. The first time I saw a pleasure horse move I asked, in a naive, pitying voice, what was wrong with it. Cutters were tiny and volatile and halter horses were cartoon images of the bulldog quarter horses of my youth. I was confused.

One day I watched a grainy video of a trainer loading an unwilling horse into a trailer without a butt rope, without dragging, beating or winching. He made getting in the trailer the easiest option and the horse did it. It took him about ten minutes and made my three day method of feeding the horse in the trailer obsolete. His name was John Lyons and I was hooked.

I began my new journey on two different tracks. I began riding with a young paint horse trainer, Devin Warren, entering the bizarre world of Western Pleasure and all-around, and at the same time, buried myself in Natural Horsemanship training. It was fascinating. I threw away everything I thought I knew and embraced this new way of looking at horses.

Fast forward a bunch of years, horses, students and my own time developing as a trainer. I bought an investment horse called Sonita, she led me to a trainer I called The Big K, and my world changed again. Those of you who know this blog know Sonita and where she took me. If you're new, well, look up the Sonita stories, you'll know me pretty well by the time you're done.

So here we are, back to my beginnings as a blog writer. I had a yearning to write and I needed to vent. I'd been training long enough for the shiny obsession of learning HOW to be a trainer to fade and was beginning to question WHY.

Why did we ride long yearlings, when all evidence proved their little bodies and minds were nowhere near ready to be under our influence? Why did we keep horses isolated in 10 x 12 boxes, on a twice a day feeding schedule, when everything from their mental and physical soundness to their digestive health demanded room to stretch, socialize, run and graze? Why did we resort to medication, surgery and domination to suppress the behaviors resulting from the life we subjected them to?

Why were owners so eager to win they were willing to sacrifice their horses health? I had grown up with the attitude of owning a horse for his lifetime. Growing with them and enjoying the benefits of a friend I'd been riding for five, ten, fifteen years. Where had this buy and sell world come from and how did I become a part of it? The higher I went in the show world the more uneasy I became.

Where did all of these incredibly stupid people come from? People who brought home a mustang straight from a BLM sale - for their kids. People who spent years doing ground work and couldn't understand why their spoiled, bored, unrideable horse wasn't selling, no matter what level the tapes said he was on or how many games he could play. People who dropped off their horses for training and never bothered to learn why their mistakes put the horse in training. People who thought they could find ways around actually learning to ride, yet still be considered horsemen. I was dismayed and amazed at the same time.

I began to write stories along with my ranting and training advice. I considered them kind of an equine Aesop's Fables, a way to share my thoughts through my actual experience.

Little did I know, a short time after I began my blogging/venting therapy, my health would start me on still another journey. My body began to betray me and I began to lose much more than my desire to participate in the upper levels of the horse industry. I began to lose my ability to do my job. What the hell was I going to do?

Fate had rolled the dice in my favor again. My blogging had gained me some recognition. It attracted the attention of a client, the mother of a childhood friend and the owner of a small newspaper. She gave me an out to my terrifying dilemma. I became a reporter and eventually a columnist for the El Paso County and Fountain Valley News. "Writer" filled the space for job description  on my tax returns.

Getting out of the trenches helped me gain some perspective. I began to see both sides of all issues. I understood the trap trainers find themselves in and why horse owners were so naive. My blog was well-named, I truly am a Mugwump. I was able to wrestle with my dilemmas and questions from a distance, which helped me become kinder and more understanding. My stories continued and began to gain a following.
My life is a bunch of different things, but boring is never, ever one of them. My next twist began about three years ago. First, my weird, progressive, debilitating illness was finally diagnosed. I have Parkinson's Disease. While still adjusting to my new reality, my husband had a stroke. My health was compromising my job, my hours had been cut back to accommodate it, the next logical step was to work from home and become my husband's full time caretaker.

This is where I am today. The blog has stuttered to a halt, for several reasons, primarily because I just don't know what to say. I don't want to become an armchair expert, they just annoy the crap out of me. I don't want to wax idyllic about my wonderful life grooming my two remaining horses and taking an occasional trail ride because A. That's boring as hell, and B. I'm only there because of my stupid body's betrayal, so I would be lying.

I'm impatient, cranky, restless, bored and frantic. Any minute, any second, on any given day. I've always been private, how many years went by on this blog before I even admitted to the one arm deal? I loved being able to be credited or discredited, listened to or told I was full of shit, based on what I knew about horses, not about being brave, or special, or an example to handicapped...ya da da, ya da da, you get my drift.

Now things have changed. If I don't talk about what's happening, I have nothing new to write about, and so many things are happening! There are fears, challenges and rewards, I can share them, I guess. Will that make me one of those people looking for pity, or trying to prove how "special" their personal trials make them? Will I become trite, or worst nightmare ever, maudlin? ARGH! NOT THAT, ANYTHING BUT THAT!

So, I'm laying it out for you. I still have my stories. Most will be from my past, but there are some current ones. My horse adventures and thoughts are on a different plane, but could still be useful. I mean, seriously, how exactly does a crooked, old, PD (Parkinson's) loaded, out of practice horse trainer get a lead change on her youngster?

How do I deal with disease, drug, and over-eating induced fat, plus my decreasing mobility?

Where do I find the time to ride when my husband is an emotional and physical 24-hour-a-day ride himself?

Then, there's the dog thing. Yes, my trainer brain just can't stop, and I'm really getting into my dogs, primarily Brockle, the twice returned pound puppy. So, a lot of my current thoughts and stories are about my fumbling, stumbling attempts at getting a handle on this dog training thing, and the help I'm getting from HMT, the Heavy Metal Trainer. I can't speak from experience, only from my digesting of the new, but it's what's on my mind lately.

This is what I have to offer. I have some thoughts and ideas on where we can go with this blog, thoughts that invigorate me and inspire me to keep writing. If you're game, check in tomorrow and I'll share.

Happy New Year.