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. 

It's not little dog. It's me.

We are in the midst of training for our next Rally-O trial (Next week! How it can almost be the end of February already?!). Despite philosophical musings of previous posts, our last trial didn't go so well. We qualified in all our runs, but that's about the best I can say about it.

Iz shut down in the ring—again. She seemed to forget what she was doing in the middle of doing it, did not recognize basic words (or hand signals) including "sit." "Sit" for crying out loud! How is that possible? I was desperate, frustrated, and embarrassed. Not great emotions to have on hand for competing, or training—or for much of anything else, for that matter. But why was Izzy shutting down? Should I stop competing with her? Does she hate it? Is the presence of all those other dogs too much pressure for my little reactive dog? Is it just too long a day for her?

In the meantime, while those questions hovered unanswered, we started taking an "Introduction to Freestyle" class and WE LOVE IT!  Recently, we were given the homework assignment of stringing together five behaviors (a.k.a tricks) in time to music of our choosing. I picked my song and started rehearsing in the living room. The living room, by the way, is where some of our best work is seen. We're both relaxed and Izzy is brilliant. Really. BRILLIANT. Her response time is lightening fast, her accuracy is spot-on, and she is one happy tail-wagging dog. Hey, Rally-O judge, why don't you come watch us in the living room next time—you'll be blown away. I promise. But, I digress. Sorry about that.

But here's the thing of it: my fail-safe location failed. Talented trainer that I am, I managed to create a  pathetic ring performance in my own living room. And this time I can't blame it on  the environment or on Izzy. It was abundantly clear to me that she shut down and didn't want to work because I was acting like a freak. I was tense and concerned about getting it right—OK, I was concerned about getting it perfect—and Izzy reacted to my stress (i.e. weird behavior, weird movements, and weird too-high-pitched voice) and shut down. She pulled back her ears, looked blankly ahead, and didn't respond to anything I said or did. Plus, she looked miserable.

So, I turned off the music, took many deep breaths, and went back to working on simple things. I rewarded Izzy for everything she did with lots of treats. Then I started working on the last behavior in the routine. Then I added the one before that. After a short bit, I put them together, and added the third and so on, back-chaining the five sequenced behaviors, so the "opening" was the last thing we did.  I kept up a high rate of reinforcement and kept telling little dog how wonderful she was. The very last thing I did was to add the music (because that's what stressed me out). And then I didn't give a whit if we were moving in time with it; I just let it play in the background. Izzy bounced back like a champ.

So now, my task is to get mellow on speed dial so I can reach it when I catch myself acting like a stressed-out competitor.  

here's the thing

I have been trying too hard to come up with something essay-ish and all wrapped up in a bow-ish for this damn blog. It's blocking me like crazy.  Because I really want to write about my relationship and journey with little dog--but I'm afraid I don't have anything IMPORTANT enough to say.

So from here on out, I promise to write more often about less. Just my thoughts on working with Izzy, and perhaps other dogs, as I step out more and more into the world of dog training. So here's your head's up  .  . .

2010: the year of writing continuously!

Trials and Jubilations

Iz and me on a Rally course. She's "dropped" on cue at a distance from me. 
 

Izzy and I competed in a Rally-O trial last Sunday, and it ended up being a really important one for us—not because we won any championship titles or blue ribbons—but because we really learned about teamwork.

It's OK if you don't what Rally is. All you need to know is that Izzy and I are supposed to heel up to various signs placed around the ring in a specific order, perform whatever obdience exercise is required at each station (on which we are scored for accuracy), and then heel on to the next station. Yeah, I know, I know, that doesn't sound like much fun—but trust me, it's a great sport, and I'll write more about it soon.

The first time we went in to compete, we were fine, but let's just say we weren't really on our game. The second time we entered the ring, our performance devolved gloriously. I walked from one station to the next as Izzy sat patiently, glued to the spot watching me go instead of walking along with me. As I weaved through four cones in a lovely serpentine pattern, Iz  took it upon herself to investigate something enticing in the corner. At another station,  I went one way around a pole, she went the other  and  the two of us circled around it as though we were rehearsing a scene from a Three Stooges episode. When we left the ring, Izzy looked so unhappy that I thought the ASPCA would be showing up any moment to read me the riot act.

An insightful and thoughtful trainer watching in the wings suggested I try hand targeting as I heeled with Izzy. That means when I offer my hand and say "touch" she bumps it with her nose. (It's like a knuckle bump, only colder and wetter.) We have this game down, but I never thought of using it in the ring. Well, whaddya know? When we went into the ring again, I dropped down my hand and asked her to touch it. She bopped my hand with gusto and we were off to the races. My little dog kept up with  me, wagging her tail and looking HAPPY!

Huh. After all this time, it had not occurred to me that Izzy hadn't figured out that when we get in the ring and I begin to move forward she's supposed to move with me. It's so obvious to me. But it turns out my understanding of the game isn't important ( insert a big fat hairy "duh" here), it's the way my dog perceives what's going on that matters.

I understand what happens when I walk briskly around the ring from one station to another. But Izzy doesn't. She just knows I'm walking AWAY from her. But as soon as my hand is offered, the mystery is solved for her and she knows we are connected. She may not understand the wheres and the whys of it, but still, she is right there, touching my hand and saying, "Yeah, I get it; wherever we go, we're together."

So this morning when I sat down with my cup of coffee (OK, my third cup of coffee) I realized I've been moping around my laptop lately, s-l-o-w to finish projects, finding it frustrating to get a satisfying toehold on others. So, maybe I need to stop thinking about what I ought to be able to do and figure out what I need  to do to get it going. Now that I've showed Izzy that it's not that scary  moving from one place to another, maybe I'll start to move forward, too. At least to the next sign. And with my little dog right by my side.