Walking with Waldo

03
Dec
2019

December 3, 2019

This is MINE!

True friendship is a plant of slow growth, and must undergo and withstand the shocks of adversity, before it is entitled to the appellation.

-George Washington

 

Waldo is one of the sweetest dogs I’ve ever known. The only time I’ve heard him growl is when he’s playing. His bites are love nibbles. He wants to meet every dog and person we meet on the rail-trail. If the other dog(s) growl, or in some other way show aggressiveness, Waldo just shrugs it off and continues walking. If people show body language that says “Leave me alone,” then, again, he just goes on his merry way as if they weren’t there. He’s a sweetheart.

But, there’s always a but, he is stubborn, and that can cause problems.

We spent some time in training getting Waldo to release his grip on things he holds in his mouth. When I first got him, we quickly learned how to play fetch with a tennis ball. I guess he got bored with that because it wasn’t long before it turned into keep-away, where he would fetch the ball and then not return it to me and not drop it. So, we learned drop it, but on his terms. It was difficult to teach him because nothing is more important to him than keeping whatever object he has. He ignores pleas and treats, and I know for a fact that he understands what I want him to do when I say, “Drop it.” It just isn’t a game he wants to play.

Finally, we made some progress, playing with two tennis balls. I would throw one and he would gleefully chase after it. Once he got it, I would bounce another and command that he drop the other ball. He loves to chase balls, so he soon learned that if he dropped the ball he had, I would throw the other one and he could go chase after it. That lasted for a while, then he decided he would drop the ball he had until I threw the second ball, then he would grab the ball he just dropped and ignore the ball I threw. Now we’re looking for a treat that is so enticing that he’ll drop what he’s got for it.

When it’s sticks he has in his mouth, this is more than a game – for me. As I’ve mentioned before, he loves to pick up sticks (and other things) and carry them in his mouth as we walk along. This is okay for me until it comes time for us to go in the house. The past couple of weeks, the damn dog has gotten it into his head he doesn’t want to drop the sticks. I am not letting him take the sticks in the house, so I try to get him to drop them before we go in. Treats don’t work. At first, I would pet him and wait. After a bit, he would drop the sticks, but as soon as he did, he’d pick them up again. So, then I would shorten his leash so he couldn’t get his head down to the ground to pick them up. His response was to refuse to drop the sticks. Frustrated, I put my fingers at the base of his jaw and forced his mouth open, removing the sticks. He let me do this for a while, then he clamped down harder and wouldn’t let me open his mouth.

The other night, I tried to grab the sticks and force them from his mouth. He growled softly and tried to get a better grip on the sticks, but bit my hand instead. I lost it and yelled at him. He let the sticks go. I shortened the leash so he couldn’t pick them up again and brought him inside, all the while fuming. He followed obediently and then came up to me, licking every part of me he could get close to.  Almost sheepishly, he entered the apartment without any other problem.

Jesus, how could I stay mad at that?

He seemed to understand that he’d crossed a line because, afterword, he was more willing to drop the damn sticks. For a while, anyway.

Now I need to continue to work with him, enticing him with treats, and show him that he’s going to have more fun doing what I want him to do, and getting rewarded for it, than doing what he wants to do. I do not want him to feel that he has to do what I want him to do or there will be consequences.

I am not alpha to him, I am his friend.

I am a good boy!

Posted by Byron Brumbaugh in Walking with Waldo, 2 comments
26
Nov
2019

November 26, 2019

I am ready! Time to go!

There is no such thing as bad weather, only inappropriate clothing.

-Ranulph Fiennes

 

It’s been a cold rainy week. High winds have nearly made the trees bald, at least those that were ready to lose their leaves anyway. The temperatures have ranged between the low-thirties to the mid-fifties. Before I go to sleep at night, I look at the forecast on weather.com and come up with a plan to navigate our rail-trail walk. The rail-trail is my favorite for walking with Waldo because it is paved, I never have to worry about mud-puddles. Puddles, yes, mud-puddles, no – except those off the trail that Waldo gets into. And he avoids those pretty well.

But, because we’re out walking for at least a couple of hours, there are other considerations. There is no reason not to avoid the rain, if possible. Walks can be arranged around the wet hours, unless it’s raining all damn day. I also have to plan what to wear. This is complicated by many factors. If we walk in the morning, the temperature usually rises rapidly, so being dressed to be warm and comfortable at the beginning of our walk, when I haven’t yet warmed up, will mean I’m overdressed and hot at the end. Dressing in layers helps some, but then you have to carry what you take off. And if the wind is blowing, this not only effectively drops the temperature through wind-chill, it also bites right through your jacket. Forty-eight degrees in windless conditions is nothing like forty-eight degrees in a twelve-knot breeze, unless you’re wearing something that will block the wind. Like a rain suit. However, that means that your body’s ability to give off heat once you’re warmed up is also impaired. And it also makes you feel sweaty because sweat doesn’t evaporate through the moisture blocking material. Gloves, and a hat that will cover your ears, are really nice if it’s cold or wet or windy. Fortunately, if no longer needed, they can easily be stuffed in a pocket. Unless, of course, the only pockets they’ll fit into are those in your jacket which you want to take off. It’s all multifactorial and complicated.

I have years of experience using weather forecasts to plan activities. Much of pre-flighting a small plane trip involves carefully using weather forecasts to plan when and where to go. This typically involves more math than prepping for a rail-trail walk — calculating fuel needs, making sure runway lengths and the plane’s crosswind handling is adequate to the conditions, but you’re still looking at the same factors. Temperatures, winds, precipitation and so forth.

I also rode motorcycles for many years and have a lot of experience in making layered-clothing choices. Fortunately, my bike had saddlebags where I could put the layers I didn’t need. But still, it didn’t take me long to learn what temperatures would require what clothing and when I would need it.

Come to think of it, much of my life was in preparation for walking with Waldo on the rail-trail.

Waldo, on the other hand, has less need for weather forecasts. His preparations are more along the line of jumping, all four feet off the floor, in front of the door leading outside, walking over my shoes while I try to put them on and pouncing on my legs and the door (why in the world he thinks this will make our leaving happen quicker, I don’t know). He also trots around in small circles in front of the door, always in a clockwise direction, until I physically stop him so I can put on his Halti and leash. Once on our walk, his ritualistic preparations seem to have worked well. Hot or cold, wet or dry, he’s out there at the end of the leash, tail up and wagging, prancing gaily along, enjoying life. However, there are limits and soon I know I will have to get him some doggie boots for when it gets really cold and icy. He also has a doggy back pack that will double as a jacket that will keep him warm when it gets bad out.

Forecast tomorrow is mid-forties to fifty degrees, sunny, but windy, with speeds to 13 mph.

We’ll be ready.

I wanna see what is over here!

Posted by Byron Brumbaugh in Walking with Waldo, 0 comments
19
Nov
2019

November 19, 2019

You still there , Old man? You wash away?

You can have good times with anyone, but it’s really different and much more interesting when you look at how you get through the bad times with someone.

-Kenya Barris

 

It’s raining, a little windy, and chilly – the temperature is in the high forties. This will not stop our daily walk.

I’m dressed in a waterproof rain jacket with hood and pants. I’m also wearing waterproof hiking shoes, although the water rolling off the pants does get onto the top of the shoes and then runs into my socks at the laces. Underneath the rain suit, I’m wearing two light jackets and, on my hands, I’m wearing a pair of cloth gloves – not enough to keep my hands dry, but enough to keep them warm. I am prepared.

Waldo was born prepared. His coat is dark and heavy enough to keep him warm. The hair’s natural oils make the water roll off them quite well and, though he does get wet, a quick doggy-shake dries him enough so that he doesn’t get really soaked, even when still in the rain. His feet are thick with pads and hair so that they’re not uncomfortable except in the coldest of temperatures. I can’t really tell any difference between how he walks in the rain and how he walks on warm dry ground.

It’s raining when we start our walk, throughout the full 5.5 miles, and after we’re done. It’s a typical Massachusetts rain, more of a drizzle really. There is a breeze, but it’s nothing like the gusts that thunderstorms produce, winds so strong, they can wad a light plane up as if it were made of paper — I’ve flown Cessnas in this drizzly kind of storm without trouble. Fortunately, thunderstorms don’t usually last that long and we can wait them out and time our jaunts around them. This storm will last all day and into the night, but all we have to worry about is getting wet.

I have been in rainstorms in Colorado where the water was coming down so hard that I couldn’t even see the white line in the middle of the road, let alone the edge of the road, through the windshield of the car I was in with the wipers going full tilt. There was nothing to be done but to stop and wait until the storm passed. They call these torrents gully-washers, for obvious reasons. I’ve also watched a wall of rain approach my house in Ethiopia during the rainy season. It came toward me like a thick, well-defined curtain of water, going from little or no rain to a downpour that rumbled the building’s corrugated tin roof. Within minutes, the trickle of water that ran across the unpaved road that led to the house became a river thirty or more feet wide and several feet deep, rushing in a rapids so hard that it was impossible to cross. We were stuck where we were for hours, until the storm passed and the water level fell.

But this storm is nothing like those. It’s just a nuisance. And, being dressed as I am, it isn’t that uncomfortable. I don’t think Waldo likes it much, but dealing with it is preferable to not going on a walk. He loves our walks, especially down the rail-trail. The rain will not melt us.

As we start, Waldo charges up front, as he always does, to the end of the leash. He seems to be pulling more than he usually does, and, even though I’m trying to train him out of this, I cut him some slack. I want to get this over with so I can go home, get dry, warm up and relax. This will not be a walk I can enjoy, but one to endure. I put my head down so the rain doesn’t hit me in the face and walk fast with as long a step as I can manage. The distance falls behind us, slowly building to our usual trek. Waldo’s not sniffing every nook, cranny, and lump in the ground as he usually does, but he’s prancing along, tail up and wagging, clearly enjoying it. I’m not paying as much attention to my surroundings as I usually do, but, when I’m not focusing on fighting the cold wet weather and focus on the nature around me, I see there is a beauty to bad weather.   It would be a lot easier to appreciate through a window in a warm, dry house, however. Waldo’s happy, but he, too, seems grateful when we return to the car.

This is just one more story, a good one, although a dreary one, we add to the annals of our shared experience.

Rain? What rain? Catch up, will ya?

Posted by Byron Brumbaugh in Walking with Waldo, 0 comments
12
Nov
2019

November 12, 2019

Follow the yellow-brick road.

A good friend knows all your stories. A best friend helped you create them.

-Anon

 

A good friend came to visit Waldo and me last week. I have known Marlene for many years, she was even there when I found Waldo online and made the phone call to get him. She’s a couple of years younger than I, is very active and very willing to go with Waldo and me on our walks. She’s very much a dog person and gets along with Waldo well (Waldo particularly likes her toes, which she bares quite regularly in warm weather). That day, she wore walking shoes for the rail-trail.

The day was sunny and comfortable enough to wear only a light jacket. Fall definitely had us in its grip and many maples, oaks and black walnut trees were bedecked in yellow, orange and red. I’m not at all an expert in tree lore, but I know the maples by the shape of their leaves and the helicopter seeds they leave on the trail, the oaks by their leaves and the acorns on the ground and the black walnuts by their leaves and the green tennis-ball-sized fruit that have walnuts inside them. As we walked along, I noticed a maple tree that was green except at its top where it was bright orange. I was bemused by the thought that if I were a maple tree instead of an old man, maybe I would be carrot-topped instead white-haired.

As we walked along, Marlene and I talked about this and that and Waldo went about doing what Waldo always does on the trail. I pointed out the things I’ve discovered along our way.   There is a clearing, a little over a mile in, on top of an underground reservoir. It sits on a hill and at the bottom is a medium-sized lake about a mile or so away. On the far shore of the lake are some large houses and boat docks. Red, orange and yellow trees go down to the water’s edge. I can imagine that Thomas Kinkade could do the scene justice, but my iPhone cannot – at least in my hands.   I’ve tried several times, with Waldo in the foreground, all very disappointing. I showed Marlene where all the trash barrels are, or rather, the Waldo-poop receptacles, and the locations where someone painted distance markers in the blacktop every half mile. At more than one place, where the trail curves away out of sight, a recent storm laid down so many leaves that it looked like the yellow brick road from the Wizard of Oz. While we were there, the wind picked up and it appeared it was snowing yellow, red and orange leaves, falling slowly after being dislodged from their birthplace by the breeze. It felt really nice to share the place where Waldo and I spent so much of our time for so many months and it was a bonus that I could do it on such a beautiful day.

I showed Marlene Waldo’s ball courts — the places where the walnut trees have dropped their fruit. As we walked along, I kicked one down the path and Waldo dutifully and eagerly galloped after it. Waldo grabbed it in his mouth and continued on down the trail. I then kicked another and he would drop the first and go after the new one. “He doesn’t like how they taste,” I told Marlene, “but he’ll pick ‘em up and carry them along as part of the game.” Waldo enjoyed the sport immensely.

“How do you know he doesn’t like how they taste?” she asked.

“Because, at first, he was loathe to put them in his mouth. Then he decided that the game was more important than his culinary disposition (he’s put much worse in there) and he now does it without hesitating.”

I explained how Waldo would go down the rail-trail, full of zeal and energy, and then get in the car, lay his chin on the console that separated us, close his eyes and doze off. Waldo doesn’t have a variable speed control, only an on/off switch. It hit me then, how well I’ve come to know Waldo. I understand him. I know, too, how well he understands me – he waits at the curb, without prompt, until I tell him it’s okay to enter the street; he goes to bed when we’re done with our walk, knowing I need to rest; he drops his sticks and jumps in the car when I open the door; he lies down and waits when I’m writing. I have to admit, he also knows how to play me when he wants something (damn doe eyes). We also share the love of our experiences, even though what we enjoy about them is different.

In that moment, I felt the depth to which we have bonded.

The black-walnut ball court.

Posted by Byron Brumbaugh in Walking with Waldo, 0 comments
05
Nov
2019

November 5, 2019

You still there?

The language of friendship is not words but meaning.

-Henry David Thoreau

 

Fall is definitely here. The temperatures are cooler, the buzzing of insects less, and the leaves of many trees are starting to change color. Early morning sunlight stabs through the leaves and freckles the rail-trail tarmac. Noseeums become visible as they swarm in these bright patches. Or maybe they aren’t swarming, but are just observable because the light makes them glow against the dark shadow behind. No, I think they’re swarming there. The temperature drops ten degrees or so as I walk from sunlight to shadow. If we didn’t have a goal in mind, our usual 5.5 mile walk, I’d be tempted to bask in the warmth.

Waldo is up ahead, at the end of his leash, doing his Waldo thing. Head low, his nose an inch or so above the ground, he trots along, rapt by a need to experience the now. And do it in large part by snout power. Every once in a while, he’ll pause, turn and look at me to make sure I’m still there, and then continue on his way. We have this unspoken agreement. Waldo has the freedom to explore wherever he wants, without interruption from me, within the purview of his leash. I follow along behind and keep us both out of trouble as I take my own separate bath in the present moment (and quite a few thoughts that distract me from it). It’s quite equitable, mutually agreeable, and we both flourish from it. And I love to watch Waldo spontaneously enjoying life.

We don’t go far, it happens at least every quarter mile, and we pass an elderly couple out for a stroll, one or two bicyclists whizzing past, a young mother or older grandmother pushing a baby buggy, a jogger or two or three plodding along, sometimes a skateboarder rolling by, or a fellow dog lover out walking their pooch. The mechanized, Waldo and I ignore, except for an unanswered and cursory “Hello” from me. The joggers are often too absorbed, or wired/blue-toothed to a phone to respond to my greeting. The others often react with a greeting and we exchange How-are-yous. I’m impressed that many respond with, “I’m doing well,” instead of the more common and grammatically incorrect, “I’m good.” Waldo usually walks past, then turns and glances at them to see if they are showing any interest in him. If not, he continues on his way. If so, he stops, sidles up to them, wagging his tail on only one side of his body, drops his head and licks at their shoes. After a pat or two, he’s back on track in a been-there-done-that trot down the trail. The people out walking their dogs are different.

I know many of the dogs by name, having met them before (I don’t know any of the people’s names – never seemed necessary to ask). If I don’t recognize the dog, I shorten the leash and call out, “Is he friendly?” as we get close. If the response is no, or if the other dog is in training or for some other reason the owner doesn’t want them to meet, I keep the leash short until we pass, then let it out to its full extent and Waldo bounds out ahead as if nothing interesting has happened. If it’s yes, I keep Waldo’s leash short until I see how the interaction goes. Waldo will approach the other dog in his bowing-and-scraping posture, licking at the other dog’s nose. They sniff at each other a bit then, usually, start jumping around trying their best to play while being tethered. It’s then a chore to try to keep the leashes from getting entangled or untangling them when it happens. Sometimes the other dog will growl and I will pull Waldo away and continue on our way. Waldo never growls. If we know the other dog from previous encounters, things pretty soon devolve into getting everybody unensnared. Throughout, no words are exchanged between Waldo and me. I watch his behavior and he responds to my nonverbal guidance. We read each other through the subtlest of gestures and prompts.

That’s when I know we are friends.

How is this pose?

Posted by Byron Brumbaugh in Walking with Waldo, 0 comments
29
Oct
2019
October 29, 2019

October 29, 2019

“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.

 

Posted by Byron Brumbaugh in Walking with Waldo, 1 comment
22
Oct
2019
October 22, 2019

October 22, 2019

“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!

Posted by Byron Brumbaugh in Walking with Waldo, 0 comments
15
Oct
2019
October 15, 2019

October 15, 2019

“

“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.

Posted by Byron Brumbaugh in Walking with Waldo, 0 comments
08
Oct
2019
October 8, 2019

October 8, 2019

“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?

Posted by Byron Brumbaugh in Walking with Waldo, 1 comment
01
Oct
2019
October 1, 2019

October 1, 2019

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?”

Posted by Byron Brumbaugh in Walking with Waldo, 0 comments