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!