This Leash was Made for Walking

It's an unseasonably blistering-hot day here in New York City, and I thought it might do us some good to get out of the apartment and go for a walk in beautiful shady Inwood Hill Park.

Well, of course everyone had that same brilliant idea, and the park was chock full of people picnicking, playing Frisbee, and just having a good time. And there were lots and lots of people walking their dogs around the grounds. Well, that's not really accurate. I didn't see people walking with their dogs, mostly I saw people connected by leashes to dogs.

It seems that all the humans attached to dogs were either talking to their friends next to them or  were talking to their friends on cell phones. They weren't paying attention to their four-legged companions. And the dogs certainly weren't paying attention to their two-legged companions. They were straining at the leash, lunging at anything that looked exciting. The dogs were focused on anything and everything but their people.

Because my dog is set off by other dogs lunging or staring, I just knew we weren't going to be able to have a relaxing walk in the park. I can't count on these people to engage their own dogs or to even notice what their dogs are doing and redirect them, no matter how pro-active I am. So I cut my losses, and we turned around to take the sidewalk tour of Inwood.

And actually, we had a pretty nice Sunday afternoon walk. But still, I can't stop thinking about those leash-pulling dogs and their people.  Why have a dog if you don't want to interact with him or her?  For me, taking Izzy on walks is a respite from a stressful day. It's a time when it's just me and my dog. I focus on her, we practice training, we have fun together noticing our surroundings. We're a team: two for the road.

I can't imagine what it would be like to walk down a street with a dog with whom I have no connection, with a dog who is constantly straining at the leash. What's the point?  I suppose if the humans are happy with walking with their dog in a constant state of potential shoulder dislocation, I should mind my own business. To each his own, right?

But still,  it makes me sad, there's so much more to living with a dog than feeding him and taking him on obligatory walks attached by the obligatory leash. The leash is, what one trainer I know calls, "a public relations tool." You shouldn't need the leash to steer or yank the dog to you, or to pull the dog away from something.

I made sure I gave Izzy extra extra attention and praise on our walk today. I'm saddened that other dogs don't get the feedback and encouragement mine does...but maybe—just maybe—if one person sees me having fun with my dog on the street...maybe he'll be inspired to actually interact with his. Fingers and paws are crossed.

Crate Expectations

 Every good trainer I know has taught their dogs that being in the crate is a lovely, homey, comfortable, snoozy place to be. They can bring their dogs to class—or anywhere else—and their dogs chillax in their crate while their people teach. Competitors bring crates to trials and dogs chillax in the crate, catching up on their powernaps so when it's finally their turn to step into the limelight they can rock out.
My dog? We were stuck last week and due to our schedule had to bring Izzy to our accountant's office. So I bring my receipts, my 1040 (or whatever ginourmous number) forms, some good long-lasting chews, and her crate. This is the crate that I have conditioned by making sure that all sorts of good things happen there. Liver falls from the sky when Izzy is in the crate. Chicken appears out of nowhere. Green tripe spontaneously sprouts. The crate is a magic treat box. Enter it and good things happen.
So we get to our accountant's, set up the crate, throw in a yummy chew. Little dog prances in happily and chews away. For four minutes. Then it's whining, scratching, crying, yipping, digging, and all sorts of hellish behavior.

I am mortified. Embarrassed. Discouraged. And completely sure that I suck as a dog trainer. If I can't get my own dog to settle happily, how can I have the gall to tell others how to do so?

Later in the week, my family came over for a holiday brunch. Iz and I performed some of our new Freestyle moves for them. My five-year old niece took Izzy for a walk in the park and threw a ball for her. The two of them even found a nice patch of clover to roll around in together (Why didn't I bring my camera?).  My sister called me later that day to tell me how much she and my niece enjoyed Iz and how amazing it was to watch us work together. My sister said that Izzy never takes her eyes off me.

So maybe I don't suck as a trainer. Maybe, I'm actually a good dog trainer. My dog likes working with me. She likes playing with me. She likes being with me. We can still work on the crate thing. And I guess I need to stop worrying about who Izzy isn't and focus on who she is.

Do I say that all the time? How many times does one have to learn a lesson for it to stick?

Now Back To Our Regularly Scheduled Programming

We re-tested Izzy today. She is FINE. Her creatinine and B.U.N levels are within normal range. We can go back to her regular food and then we'll re-test again in four more weeks or so just to be sure, but things are looking up!

Thanks to everyone for their good thoughts! I know it made a difference.

I kidney you not

About three and a half weeks ago my big worry was "How am I going to compete in the ring without all those nerves?" Then suddenly my heart broke with an ugly crack, and I was wondering, "How am I going to get myself through life without my dog?"

We took Iz to the vet for routine stuff and the vet took a blood test. I was shocked when he called later that day to tell me that it looked like she was at the beginning of kidney failure. I still have problems even writing that down. Long story short, after a scary blood test, but healthy urine test, a completely asymptomatic dog, and a second opinion—nobody knows for sure what's going on. We're retesting in a week or so after she's been on a low-protein, low-phosphorous diet. (Don't even get me started about the worries of what to feed her. Listen to the traditional vet? Listen to the homeopathic vet? Pay attention to the Whole Dog Journal? Follow the advice on listserves, Web sites?)

I've stopped looking at her as dead dog walking and have decided I'm not going to worry until all the information is in. Plus, she's the same happy, energetic little dog she was before we went to the vet's. So, suddenly, competition doesn't seem like much of an obstacle. It's corny, I know—but I really want to just remember that Izzy is here with me now. Today. And probably tomorrow. And we need to live our lives, not worry about when they end.

Peeing Poodles, the Olympics and Iz

So. We went to the trial last Sunday and did what we went there to do. We won our ARCH-X title in Rally-O. 

The first run was glorious and we scored a 206 out of a possible 210. The second run . . . not so glorious, but our score was just one point above the minimum requirement to win our ribbon. So it counts. And it's legitimate. I would have liked to have scored higher—but once again my nerves got the best of me.

I mean, come, on, there's a judge there. A judge. Meaning someone who is JUDGING you. Some one who watches you work with your dog and takes notes, for crying out loud. She grades you as you perform each task around the course. Then everyone on God's green earth gets to see it. And they laugh. OK, nobody laughs, but still it can feel pretty bad when yours is the lowest score on the board. And no, I won't tell you how I know that. 
 
Later in the day, after Izzy and I had our turn in the ring, I watched another team—a quiet petite woman and her white toy poodle—take the same course we had just navigated. I love to watch this particular team work. They are fast, precise, elegant and almost always take home the blue ribbon. Except Sunday. They were disqualified when that cute little poodle peed in the ring.

And then there's the Olympics. Even pretty blonde Lindsey Vonn falls down and goes boom. Ice skaters slip and trip. Coaches misdirect athletes. And these are the BEST of the best.

If a top dog can eliminate himself from the game by, well, eliminating; and Olympians can mess up in front of millions, I can get in the ring with my dog again and try for the next title, nerves or no. ARCH-EX, here we come!  After a little rest, of course.

We did it

'tis a puzzlement

It's Friday night. Two days before our trial. It could be THE trial. If we do well, we'll go home with our new championship title. If we don't . . . we won't. And that's all. Nothing bad will happen. We just wait until next time to try again.

We dropped in to a Rally class today to practice. I wanted to practice chillaxin' in the ring. I wanted to work on being aware of my body language, my voice, my stress, my tension—all that good stuff. I felt fine; I thought I was fine.

And the first time we went to do the course, we did fine, too. Pretty good, actually. The next run wasn't so good. The third one was pathetic with a capital S-U-C-K. Here we were in a what I thought was a completely low-pressure atmosphere  (It was a tiny class. Just me and Iz and two other dog/handler teams) and my dog checked out. Way the heck out. I'm talkin' she went where the busses don't run. I wish I understood what was going on.

So, we'll see what happens on Sunday. It's possible we'll do well. It's possible we'll fall on our faces.

Either way, we're going home together.