Byron Brumbaugh

“Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.

-George Lucas

Continued from last week…

It’s strange, how fear engenders anger, isn’t it? I suppressed the you-just-wait-until-I-catch-you fury that pulsed in my temples. The last thing I needed was for Waldo to think that I would punish him when I got control of him again. But I couldn’t control the oh-my-God-he-can-run-much-faster-than-I-can-I’m-going-to-lose-him fear that raged in my chest.

Waldo ignored me, gleefully running up to the curb and running on the grass next to the cars going by. He must have felt a sudden gush of pent-up herding instinct, finally able to be released in all its glory. My chest tightened even more. If he got out in the street… I quashed visions of him being hit by a car traveling at speed. The distance between us grew, but I kept at my slow pace and called him again. I started thinking about who I should call and how I would find Waldo when I lost sight of him, which seemed imminent.

I held my breath as Waldo ran up to, then across, the street that crosses the rail-trail near the caboose. The drivers there saw him coming and stopped, letting him safely go on his way. The damned dog stuck to the direction of the path, but in the grass next to the curb, and continued chasing the cars. After a minute or so, he laid down in the shade, exhausted. Panting furiously, tongue fully extended, he continued to ignore me and watched the car-sheep. I walked up to him, slowing as I got close, and talked to him calmly, softly calling out his name and telling him to come. I got to within six feet, he turned, looked at me, and was up and at a full gallop again – still after the car-sheep. I had gotten close, maybe I could get lucky. I continued my measured pursuit.

The cars came to a stop at a red light. Waldo rushed out into the street and stuck his nose into a nearby tailpipe, then sniffed a rear tire. Oh, God! This was it! A vision of a bleeding, mournfully whining dog danced in my brain. The breath stopped in my throat and I had the strongest impulse to charge at the cars, wave my arms and shout, “Stop! Don’t move!”

And then he was back in the grass and plopped down in some shade. I approached him slowly again, calling to him and talking to him in a calm voice. How I pulled that off, I’ll never know. Once again, when I got within six feet, he, after a quick glance in my direction, was up and gone in a full gallop. I followed, feeling less and less sure that I was ever going to be able to get him back on the leash before something terrible happened.

He ran hard until he got to the part of the trail that goes right up to the curb. There, he collapsed on his side, up against the pipe fence, right next to the traffic, panting hard. I came toward him slowly, calmly, lovingly and, this time, got close enough I could get a handful of fur. My sweat-based cooling system out-lasted his dripping-tongue pant. Got you, you son of a bitch!

I reconnected the leash, petted him affectionately, and poured fire retardant all over the frustrated anger that burned in my soul. The last thing I wanted was for Waldo to feel that being back with me was a punishing experience. A flood of relief washed over me even, as I reminded myself that it would be counterproductive to indulge in the inappropriate punishment my hormones so urged me to douse him in. We walked slowly back to the bench where I offered him, again, a long drink of water. My fear and anger slowly ebbed and I spent much of the rest of the walk home, thinking about how I could prevent anything like that from happening ever again. And I thanked the Fates, over and over, for letting me keep my dog.

Like I said, that was a couple of months ago. Today, we walk on the rail-trail, but not so far. My ankle still gets a bit sore if we go more than about five miles and I don’t want to push it. The weather is cooler and I’m not so sure, but, if Waldo did get away now, I might have a harder time getting him back again. And things have changed. He no longer seems to be as interested in chasing the car-sheep. Waldo doesn’t pull at and fight the leash like he used to and walks close to traffic a lot more calmly. I’ve changed the mechanism of his leash connection a bit and I don’t think he can get it to release again. We practice the “come” command while we’re on the trail and he complies well – at least while on leash. None of this means that, if he were to get away, I wouldn’t have just as hard, or even harder, a time getting him back on leash, but we’ve come a long way.

And we are, thank God, still together.

Waldo and I, still here.

“No passion so effectually robs the mind of all its powers of acting and reasoning as fear.”

-Edmund Burke

A couple of months ago, sometime between late June and early July — well before I sprained my ankle, Waldo and I were doing our long 8.7-mile walk on the rail-trail. The sun was high, it was close to midday, and it was hot, right around 83 degrees. The air was still with only an occasional relief-giving breath of wind helping to evaporate the sweat soaking my clothes and forehead. Waldo’s tongue was fully extended and dripping, saliva drops flying as his longer-than-snoot tongue flopped about with each step. I carried a backpack holding two bottles of water for him and one was already empty as we approached the old railroad caboose that marked our turnaround spot.

There are those who believe that our ancestors survived because we can sweat. The argument goes that they were able to run down game, gazelles and such, not because they were faster, but because they had better endurance since they could sweat and the game animals couldn’t. Estimates suggest that animals, like dogs, can maintain their body temperature during prolonged exercise on days that don’t exceed the mid-seventies. Humans do better, regulating their temperatures in up to mid-eighties weather. Above those temperatures, rest and cooling off in the shade, or a dip in a creek, is periodically needed.

On this walk, Waldo didn’t slow down in the slightest. If the heat was bothering him, he didn’t show it. Just the same, I decided that hereafter, I would not take Waldo out for long walks when the temperature was above 73 or so. Sleep be damned (and it often was in the following weeks – there were days we got up at 4 AM), we would leave early enough so the temperature would not exceed the mid-seventies. But, on that day, there we were, baked in the hot sun.

The rail-trail is quite arboreal, lots of welcome shade, up until the last mile to the caboose. It then, suddenly, opens up to a city-scape as it passes very close to downtown Hudson. For about a tenth of a mile, the path goes right to the curb and is protected from cars, trucks and motorcycles by only an iron pipe fence. This always made Waldo nervous and, even though I kept him on a tight leash there, his tail was tucked and he anxiously fought his tether, even when I put my body between him and the car-sheep. Beyond that, the trail runs between two busy streets, each separated from where we walk by only about fifteen feet or so of well-manicured lawn. Waldo liked to run, full tilt, parallel to the streets, on one side or the other, chasing the car-sheep, but staying on the grass. I tried my best to discourage him from this, but my success was sketchy. We live in a city and can’t avoid being close to traffic and I wanted Waldo to get used to walking near it, so I used this as a training opportunity.

Shortly after crossing the last stoplight-controlled street, we came to the old caboose, ensconced on a very short piece of rail in the grass. There’s a bench in front of it and I took off the backpack, pulled out the remaining full water-bottle and sat down with a grateful sigh. Waldo went into the shade offered by the caboose and laid down. I called to him and tugged on the leash, trying to get him to come and get the drink of water I knew he needed. He rolled around on the grass, ignoring me. I insisted and pulled harder on the leash, calling him to me. The leash suddenly went slack and rolled up into its handle. Somehow, Waldo got the clasp on the end of the leash to open up and it came free from his Halti. Oh, shit!

I glanced at Waldo. In his eyes, there showed a sudden realization, flashing by in only a millisecond, that he was no longer encumbered, no longer tethered, that he was free! In the next millisecond, his eyes told me that he decided this means go! And he went – with gusto, at a full gallop, back along the rail-trail the way we had come.

Oh crap! This was bad, very bad. He could outrun me even if I were athletic and in my twenties. I had no chance of chasing him down, and he was in no mood to come back on his own. Visions of Waldo running off into the distance, disappearing into side streets, twisted my stomach up in knots. And, God damn it, if he were to cross the street and get hit by a car…

I dropped his water bottle and the pack on the bench and went after him. I called to him calmly, trying not to let the anxiety, fear and frustration that I felt show in my tone and walked in a quick, but not rushed, pace toward him. The last thing I wanted was to get into a race with him – something he might think of as a game.

What the hell was I going to do now?

Continued next week…

Here car-sheep, here car-sheep!

“

“Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around.”

-Leo Buscaglia

I never wanted a dog who obsequiously obeyed my every command. Good thing, because I ended up with Waldo. When I am with someone I really like, a spouse, a best friend, or even a new acquaintance, and they ask me to do something, my natural inclination is to do it without thought or reservation. I don’t respond this way out of a sense of wanting to please, subservience or even duty. I do it out of an urge to cooperate. That is the kind of relationship I want to nurture in Waldo.

I spend a lot of time working on “commands” with Waldo.   At first, it’s a matter of communication. Before anything else can be achieved, he has to understand what I am directing him to do. Waldo is smart and this happens rather quickly. The next thing is to convince him that he should do what I want. This is where it gets a bit sticky. I don’t want him to act out of fear of the consequences if he doesn’t. I don’t want him to respond because I am alpha to him. I want him to do what I ask of him simply because I asked it.

But Waldo is not a suck-up. He is, by his very nature, by his personality, self-determining, and I don’t want to change that. The thing is, there are times when his self-determination can put him in very dangerous circumstances.   The last thing I want is for him to get hurt. There are times when I need him to obey me despite what his personal inclinations are telling him to do. There are times when his obedience is absolutely required. So, we train and I don’t let him not obey, I don’t let him think that disobedience is an option. But I don’t do this by punishing him when he doesn’t obey. I just get him to go over and over what I ask until he does it.

Ideally, Waldo’s training can be something of a game for him. I can make it a game by offering him treats in order to perform tasks. This works, up to a point, for a limited amount of time. Eventually he gets bored, or full of treats, and we stop for a while. The point here is to convince him that whatever I ask of him is something that I strongly want, more strongly than whatever it is that he wants. So, training amounts mostly to communicating what I want and then reinforcing his understanding the strength of my desire.

There are also times when I force Waldo to comply with what I want. When we are walking and we come to a street, I force him to wait until I tell him it’s okay to step into the street. If he breaks early, I pull him back away from the street. If necessary, I hold a tight leash on him until it is safe for him to go. I don’t punish him if he doesn’t comply, I force him to comply.

But this all is not the most important part of his training. What really counts is the emotional relationship that I form with Waldo. I do my best to play with him, to give him some joy. I take him places, like a dog park, where he can run free. I make sure that I frequently give him affection, pets, pats and rubs, especially when I am forcing him to be obedient. I work very hard at interacting with him in a loving, playful way. Work isn’t the right word here because it’s a pleasure, not an act of labor. What really counts, I believe, is kindness and affection.

The magical thing is that Waldo does the same for me. He tries to play with me and provide me with fun activities. He cuddles with me and shows me that he appreciates the affection that I give him. There are things that he absolutely needs from me – like going outside to do his business, feeding him and even getting affection from me. He doesn’t physically force me to do these things, but he certainly makes it uncomfortable for me if I don’t (usually in the form of providing me with a mess I have to clean up) and he gives me positive reinforcement when I do (in the form of affection). He is kind and happy, playful and affectionate.

I must be doing something right.

Smokin’ a stick.

“Animals are the bridge between us and the beauty of all that is natural. They show us what’s missing in our lives, and how to love ourselves more completely and unconditionally. They connect us back to who we are, and to the purpose of why we’re here.”

-Trisha McCagh

Waldo and I are out on a poop and pee walk. These are short, about one half mile, jaunts about the property that we engage in every two hours or so. I think the place used to be some kind of orchard in the past because there are a number of apple and pear trees around. They look, to me, to be older than the apartments and I’m guessing they were there before this became what it is today. There are also oaks, maples and various kinds of conifers as well, so maybe I’m wrong and the fruit trees were planted when they were older. But why would one do that? The fruit trees are scattered about the grounds in no coherent pattern and nobody picks the fruit. It falls to the ground where it eventually rots and makes a mess. It has to be a nuisance for the groundskeepers and no one benefits from them.

Except Waldo. As we walk around the trees, he selects and fills his mouth with at least two fist-sized apples. Or an apple and a pear. And a stick or two. He carries these around, drops them occasionally, then picks them up again. He may drop and leave his burden in mid-walk somewhere, but if he does, he reloads before carrying on very far. Waldo Appleseed, he spreads the beginnings of future trees around the property. When we get back to the building where we live, I have to convince him to drop whatever he’s carrying before we go inside. You know where we live because there is a pile of rotting fruit and broken sticks around the door.

I’m not sure why he does this and I’m not convinced that I need to know. Maybe he feels less insecure when his mouth is full? He does chew on the stuff sometimes, but that doesn’t seem to be the motivation for filling his maw with it. I don’t think it hurts him in any way – although I do sometimes find small bits of sticks in his stool when I pick it up. It’s just curious.

You know, I spend a lot of time trying to understand what motivates him. I think about how I can convince him how to play the way I want him to – fetch instead of keep-away, for example. I think about and repetitively train him to do all the things that I feel are in our best interest – sit, stay, down, come, walk without tugging at the leash and so on. I try to be vigilant as to what interests and pleases him and arrange for him to have that, whatever it is, in his life. I also try to find ways to get him to leave me alone so I can have some me-time. This often requires prolonged negotiation – he is a very self-oriented and insistent animal.

And then there are times when I get down on all fours and we just spontaneously play. We make up the rules as we go and use whatever is at hand. This usually involves some biting on his part (after all, he has no hands), which I try to discourage, and some pawing that ends in claw-scratches on my arms, but otherwise, it’s freeform. After a bit, I pull him toward me and rub his shoulders just where he likes it and pet his head. He leans into me and gives me love nibbles and licks me until some part of my clothes are wet and I am pretty thoroughly slimed. At these times, I know my oxytocin levels are high and his probably are too. But what’s happening is more than that.

I’m convinced that those puppy-cuddling moments are not motivated by some need for surrogate human, or in his case, substitute canine, affection. My feelings are not like those I’ve ever had for a spouse, child or any other person. How could they be? Waldo’s a dog. Still, it’s clearly love that I feel and just as strong and deep — yet different. It has to be. What I share with Waldo is not the same as what I share with people.

And it feels pretty damn good.

Wanna play?

In the End, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.

-Martin Luther King, Jr.

The morning is wet and cool. Rain, sprinkles, really, has been coming and going since we started our morning walk. Waldo is up front at the extreme end of his leash — where he likes to be. I’m eight meters back, holding onto the other end. The tether is taut and Waldo is pulling me uncomfortably forward. I’ve tried to talk him out of this for some time, but his response is to try to talk me into picking up the pace. He’s up there, saying, “Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go.” I’m back here, saying, “Stop pulling, stop pulling, stop pulling.”

I’ve tried several tacks at trying to get him to at least go along with my idea, even if he doesn’t like it, all to no avail. I’ve tried gentle jerks on the leash, a tactic that has worked for me with other dogs, but he just ignores them. I’ve tried stopping and waiting until he stops pulling and then continuing. He just starts pulling again. I’ve tried a remote collar that beeps, then buzzes. The first time I hit the button, he looked around as if to say, “What the heck?”, but then continued on as if there were no beeping and buzzing. I swear he’s thinking, “Oh, well, whatever.” Nothing seems to work.

I’m right-handed, that’s where I hold the leash, and my right shoulder has gotten a little beefy, compared to my left, and is a bit sore at night. All that pulling is uncomfortable. I can’t imagine that it’s very comfortable for the dog either. There are times when Waldo gets so excited, for no reason I can see, that he runs hard to the end of the leash, where his head snaps to a sudden stop while his body keeps going in a somersault. I worry about him hurting his neck. Sorry, Waldo, the leash is not gonna go. You’re going to have to learn, somehow, to walk with it and do it in a way that’s good for both of us.

I worry that his behavior is a result of his not getting enough exercise. We walk 5 miles a day, hot or cold, rain or shine. Our trainer tells me he gets plenty of exercise. She has worked with us weekly for a few months now and has seen Waldo in all of his moods. It’s her assessment that Waldo is a normal happy dog that loves to engage in activities. He has a head-strong personality, is full of energy and just tries to get away with whatever he can. She thinks this will probably go on for another two or three years before he calms down a little.

So, I try a new approach. Whenever Waldo pulls at the end of the leash, I shorten it until he’s right next to me. I then let him return to the end of the leash, which he does with gusto. This sends him the message, I hope, that responds to his “Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go,” with a, “Whoa there, pardner,” that tells him that, if he wants to keep going, he has to stop pulling. So, we walk along in fits and starts as we make our way down the trail. There are periods, lasting ten minutes or more, where the only tension on the line is that from the spring in the handle of the retractable leash. Maybe it’s working, but every so often, Waldo needs to check to see how serious I am about it. Or, maybe that’s all wishful thinking.

What I do know, for sure, is that Waldo and I spend many hours in each other’s company, tugging and pulling, walking along out in nature. We both sniff the air, look at the greenery, listen to the animal life around us, feel the breeze as it dances around us and, sometimes, get wet in the rain. We walk until we’re tired and a little sore, then go home and chill, often with a nap that we take together. We are not adversaries, we’re just dancing around each other, finding a choreography that works for us both.

What we are is an old man and a young dog who are happily sharing a life.

“Come on, old man. What you waiting for?”

Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.

-Anais Nin

During the eclipse of August 21, 2017, I met with my family in St. Louis, MO. We went to a farmer’s field, a little ways out of town, and waited for the celestial event to happen. There were a couple hundred people there who were milling around in the grass, some socializing, some just wandering. I came upon a man leading a dog on a short leash. The dog walked sedately at heel next to his master and ignored what was going on around him. I recognized the dog to be a border collie and approached the man. Border collies are renowned for their intelligence and I thought that it would be interesting to tap into that and see what kind of relationship could be formed — this chance meeting provided me an opportunity to get some details about what it was like to own one. The man told me that, yes, they are very energetic; yes, they are independent; yes, they are very smart and learn quickly; and yes, he often was not sure who was training whom. The one thing that made the deepest impression on me was, before we parted, he said, “He has been a good friend.” That was something I wanted.

Waldo and I just got back from a poop and pee walk around the property. We do this about every two hours, not just for Waldo’s biological necessities, but also for his peace of mind. He needs to get out and do something fairly often. The two-hour intervals are an unspoken agreement we made to keep us both sane.

Waldo jumps up on the arm of my chair and demands my attention. I know he doesn’t have to relieve himself because we just got back. I give him some shoulder rubs, pets and pats, then tell him, “Off.” He hesitates because he hasn’t gotten what he wants. What he wants is to play ball, tug-of-war or anything else that will entertain him. He eventually gets down, goes a little ways away and lays on the floor, keeping an eye on me. This doesn’t last long and he’s back at it again. I feel his need, but I’ve got to have some me time, so again I refuse, tell him, “Wait,” and he goes off and lays down again. This goes on and on for over an hour and finally it’s close to the two-hour limit between outside trips and I relent and take him out. In the rain. He happily agrees to this compromise and out we go.

In addition to being wet out, it’s dark. I let him go to the end of the leash and he pulls me in the path he wants to follow, which is always the same, unless I redirect him. Even though he’s wearing a Halti, he pulls on the leash uncomfortably. This is something we’re negotiating – I want him to stop pulling and he wants to go. I’ve tried stopping and waiting until he no longer pulls; I’ve tried softly jerking on the leash to let him know I don’t like it; I’ve tried talking to him. Nothing works for very long. Leash etiquette is something we are going to work on with our trainer in the near future. In the meantime, nobody is entirely satisfied. I remind myself that he is still a puppy.

I’ve had a few dogs in my life and known quite a few more. I have loved them all, to various degrees, but there has always been a clear, mutually understood, ranking between us – the hierarchy was understood. This was not something that I demanded, and not every person I know has this happen. It doesn’t mean that the dogs are subservient to me or that they will do everything I tell them to do. Yet, somehow, though they may rebel, it’s clear to both of us that I am alpha to them. With Waldo, it’s different. He doesn’t just blindly quiesce to my will — he tries to ignore it, tries to get around it and tests my resolve. We aren’t exactly equals, but he isn’t obsequious either. Sometimes we are at an impasse of some sort that we have to get beyond and one or the other of us eventually relents. There is never a battle to determine the outcome, it’s always a negotiation. I’ve never had a relationship with an animal or a human quite like it. I think about what the man at the eclipse said about his dog and I now understand it.

Waldo is my friend.

My buddy, Waldo.

There are two great days in a person’s life – the day we are born and the day we discover why.

-William Barclay

Waldo is one year old (August 25, 2019)! Of course, that reflects the fact that the Earth has gone around the Sun once since he was born. It doesn’t reflect his level of maturity, compared to human maturity. The rule of thumb for conversion of “human-years” to “dog-years” is to multiply by seven. But in fact, the conversion is nonlinear and dogs mature much more in the first year than humans do in the first seven years. A more accurate conversion for the first celestial year of a dog’s life is that it is comparable to about fifteen years of a human’s life. That explains a lot. Waldo acts like a damned teenager. He demands independence, has poor insight into the consequences of his actions, loves mischief and is always, always testing his boundaries. The only human teenage thing he doesn’t have is zits. Well, okay, he also doesn’t have an insatiable desire for a driver’s license, so I guess that’s not the only teenage thing he doesn’t have, but still, he is a “teenage” dog.

We celebrate Waldo’s birthday by playing catch with his tennis balls and playing tug-of-war with his ropes. The tug-of-war lasts until I tire of it, then I bring out the tennis balls and throw one for him. As I’ve mentioned before, his idea of fetch is more like keep-away and I’m trying to get him to play my way which is so much less work for me. I throw one of the balls and he runs after it – he’s all swirling tail and flailing legs as it bounces around and his head jabs at it when it gets close. Once he has it, he turns to face me and I say, “Bring it here.” This, he ignores and he stares at me with a why-in-the-world-would-I-do-that? look. I then bounce another tennis ball and tell him, “Drop it.” As soon as he does, I throw the ball I have and he lunges after it. This we repeat until he gets to the point that he gets the ball and he drops it without my saying anything, so I’ll throw the one I have. Nothing I say will make him bring the ball close to me before he drops it. Not yet. I throw my ball, he clearly enjoys charging after it, and I collect the one he drops. Finally, he falls over sideways, lays down panting and rests. This lasts for about 30 seconds or so and then he is ready to go again. He’s having a blast. He wasn’t born to fetch, but I haven’t given up hope yet that he will eventually agree to it.

After our playtime, we go to the rail-trail and do what has become our usual daily 4.5 mile walk. Waldo takes off to the end of the leash and pretty much ignores me, except for an occasional glance back to make sure I’m still there, as he goes about his exploration of the natural world. We’ve been down this same path a gazillion times, but each time, it’s different – you can’t walk the same trail twice. I can attest to that and Waldo seems to agree as he sniffs and licks his way along as if it was all for the first time.

We return home and, in the evening, we have dinner and I give him a cup of doggie ice cream. He’s never had anything so cold to eat except snow. He seems a little put off by the coldness until he decides, “Hey, this stuff is good!” and then he laps it up without pause until it’s gone.   We go out for one final lap around the property and then it’s time for bed.

That was how we celebrated Waldo’s birthday. I don’t know why I wanted to celebrate it, I don’t have birthdays anymore – that’s how you get old (I gave all mine to my granddaughter Emily). And I don’t know why I’m interested in calibrating Waldo years to human years. I guess the celebration is a way of embracing how Waldo is important to me and my life. I suppose the calibration is a way of providing a yardstick to Waldo’s life that helps me understand where he is in his life’s journey.

All I know for sure is that Waldo and I had a wonderful day.

At the trainer:
“The ball is over there!”

Every dog should have a man of his own. There is nothing like a well-behaved person around the house to spread the dog’s blanket for him, or bring him his supper when he comes home man-tired at night.

-Corey Ford

It’s early morning and I am dragged from a deep restful sleep by a soft whine coming from just beyond the foot of my bed. I open my eyes and, out of habit, look at the clock. It reads 6:33 AM. Once the fog clears from my mind, I say, “Good morning, Waldo,” and start getting dressed. The early morning sun is oozing its soft pastel rays between the slats of the venetian blinds and gives dim illumination to the bedroom. I’m pretty sure the motivating power behind the whine is this low ambient light level and not some internal dog-clock. A full bladder and bowel cramps may be playing a role too, but I’m not about to test that. Waldo has me well trained and I get us ready for a walk, on the rail-trail, without further thought, complaint or argument. Sometimes morning doesn’t begin this way. When it doesn’t, it’s because I want to get going earlier and it starts with an electronic alarm in the dark. But this morning I “slept in.”

He also has me trained to recognize when he wants to play, get pets and hugs and when he needs a drink of water. This is not too hard to figure out. He comes up to me and nudges me with a toy in his mouth when he wants to play. He lays his head on my lap and nuzzles in between my arm and my chest when he wants affection. He pants hard, his saliva-dripping tongue flops around in the air and he seeks whatever shade he can find when he needs rest and a drink of water. More than anything else, Waldo has trained me to be vigilant and pay attention to him and his body language so I can anticipate what he needs. He uses a butt-wagging tail, a jaunty step, and a mischievous twinkle in his eye as positive reinforcement. His methods of negative reinforcement usually entail some kind of mess I have to clean up, but that doesn’t happen often.

Waldo has learned a lot of commands. He knows sit, down, wait, come and drop it, to name a few. I use treats, hugs, pets, and verbal encouragement for positive reinforcement and a shortened leash, a soft tug on the leash, and a sharp word (like “Goddammit, dog!”) – all of which are rare and thoughtless reactions, as negative reinforcement. We see a dog trainer once a week. She gives us goals to work toward during the intervening days and helps us slowly progress down the path of mutual respect and coexistence. This week, we’re working on the command “stay.” We’ve worked on this in the past, but indoors. We now work on it in the midst of distractions outdoors. It has obvious safety implications and I don’t give Waldo much slack in compliance.

As we walk down the rail-trail, I stop every few minutes and tell Waldo to sit and then to stay and slowly back away from him while facing him. If he moves from stay, I tell him no and return him to the same spot. Once I am at the end of the leash, I count to thirty seconds and, if he has held his position, I tell him to break and he gleefully comes to me for a treat before he goes back about his business. This does not always happen. He could rebel and fight the leash and refuse to sit, but this is not his default ploy. Instead, he’ll see what he can get away with and break from stay without command. He’s a brat. I think he’s trying to train me to let him decide what he’s going to do.

It’s been a bit more than six months since Waldo and I joined forces. I’ve adapted to living with a puppy whose needs I can’t ignore even if I wanted to. Waldo has accepted that there are things he must do, even if he’s not so inclined, and what he can get away with. It is definitely a work in progress and it is not at all clear, all the time, who’s in the driver’s seat. We are both pretty hard-headed.

Living with Waldo is a negotiation and, in the end, we both get trained.

No! Stay!