Dog owner in training

We've tried to train our dog. But now I wonder if she's trained us. The pity is we were warned.

The dog trainer at the oversized pet supply store we would come to call the Dog Nazi had sheets of mimeographed paper she handed out with each lesson.

She had command performances throughout each session in which it often felt that the owner was the one in training rather than the dog. When the dog didn't make the turn properly or sit on command, we hadn't held the lead right. The Dog Nazi demonstrated the proper technique. Often she got the response from the dog we had failed to elicit. Then we were asked to do it again.

It was like being in basic training in the U.S. Marine Corps. We were hopeless Gomer Pyles compared to a few of the other dog owners whose dogs seemed to instinctually respond to the commands they were given.

When I was told during one session that small dogs like my Maltese typically didn't respond well to training I looked over at the German Shepherd puppy running through newly learned tricks with precision. I wondered if a trade could be worked out.

For some perverse reason the universal rules of economic scale work in inverse ratio when it comes to small dogs. The less there is of a dog the more you pay for it. Our very expensive small dog is a stubborn, white-haired Maltese - bred to be indifferent to owners commands apparently in the way that a very unreliable foreign car that costs a fortune and is great to look at is always in the shop.

Those few times when the dog didn't quite do what she wanted, we suppressed giggles.

My wife and I missed appointments- unavoidably at times. We found it hard to face the Dog Nazi after a missed appointment having been admonished at the outset of our sessions that keeping strict attendance was best for the dog and the class as a whole. There was just something uncompromising in her approach we found disagreeable. She assigned homework to the dog owners, and when it was apparent we hadn't practiced we were chastised publicly. When we did practice and the dog didn't perform on command, we felt like failures.

We wondered if training the dog was really worth the price of humiliation in front of the Dog Nazi. Were her methods really sound? Maybe the dog would just sort of come to understand what was expected of her without all this nonsense. Magical thinking maybe, but we were getting worn down with children, work and life.

Flash forward about two years. The Dog Nazi may have seemed extreme in her methods. But I now believe her premises were sound. The dog does what the dog wants to do most of the time. We do damage control and mitigation work-arounds.

For instance, one day we brought a retractable leash to class. The Dog Nazi frowned. I don't use those, she said. What's wrong with them? we asked. The dog has more control when you use those, she said. You need control. You need a short leash.

Our dog has tiny legs. She always seemed to get tripped up and tangled up with the short leash. So, we would use the leash approved by the Dog Nazi in class and revert back to the retractable leash outside of class. But I've since realized she was right. We were wrong. On the retractable leash our Maltese walks straight down the middle of the road like the Queen of England on parade. When a car comes, I have to reel her in like a big-mouth bass to get her out of the way. On the short leash, she doesn't get the chance to do that.

We try to reward good behavior and punish the bad in a general way.

And I've found that having her on a timer - four hours between every walk - keeps her from soiling the carpet. But I think I've really just trained myself. I'm living my life in four hour intervals. If only there was some method of communication between owner and dog - nonobtrusive and straightforward that let us know exactly when she needed to go out. Sort of like we might have learned in the last few classes we missed from the Dog Nazi.

I've slowly altered my behavior to suit the dog's needs. I see now that the Dog Nazi was trying to empower us way back when instead of humiliate us. To show us the self-discipline it takes to command the dog and not let the dog command us.

I was always and still am a dog owner in training. Mostly by my dog. It's just taken me a while to see it.

Bless you, Dog Nazi. Wherever you are. You were right.

A word on spam

So, I'm a brand new blogger. Whoo hoo. Except my blog is blocked. Because it could be spam. Only it isn't. There's some algorithm for determining what is and isn't the s- word. (I figure repeating a word is one of the ways the bots decide what's a real post and what's (you-know-what). So, I did something the bot-thingys did not like that triggered an alert.
So much of life is clutter these days that even the useful - or potentially useful - stuff is now being screened out.
At one point in life I gave up on network television shows because of the volume of the commercials that run during them. I get sucked in now and then when someone else is watching one - read my lovely wife.
Although I sometimes DVR a show and feel good about fast forwarding through the commercials, I'm just consuming them at a quicker pace without the sound.
I hate billboards that detract from a lovely drive in the country. The worst are billboards that advertise the use of billboards to advertise products. Whenever I read a billboard touting the great benefits of using billboards to get the word out, I want to puke. How do I get those two seconds I just lost back.
On the other hand, when I play the ABC driving game with my son and we're trying to take letters from billboards to get from A to Z I suddenly realize the problem with billboards isn't that there's too many of them.
There's simply not enough with qs and zs.

Welcome Mat, love bugs, sand burrs and autism

We started a new life in a new place in September. My family moved from a subtropical climate subject to hurricanes and love bugs - Ocala, Florida. We moved to a subtropical climate subject to hurricanes and sand burrs - Carolina Beach, NC.
Don't get me wrong. I am loving everything about Carolina Beach.
The love bugs were a pure pestilence. Little strange black insects that were always conjoined. Perhaps they were mating. A perpetual embrace. They died together on your car windshield and the front grill of your car and could not be scraped off using conventional methods. They required special chemicals.
I merely pick the sand burrs out of the fat tires of my beach bike. I must remember to carry tweezers with me for this. Because there's nowhere to grab a burr without a little pain.
The best thing about Carolina Beach is the ability to ride a bicycle around with my ten-year-old. He just learned to ride. It's a huge thing for him because he's autistic, and his mastery of skills proceeds along a somewhat tortured route.
His much delayed First Times that are rife with suspense and angst and joy.
You hold your breath. Will he tie his own shoes? Waiting...waiting...no, that's a knot that resembles a bow...okay, that's the first part....ok...now you've got it.
So, within a few weeks of being here we took the training wheels off his bicycle. He learned to ride. Learned to stop. Now he goes back and forth to school on his own, legs pumping quickly.
Now that Avery is becoming more independent, I'm looking for work.
I pick out sand burrs. Some are more difficult to dig out than others.
But life is good. I am embracing the moment. If the sand follows us from the beach and gets into the bedsheets at night, that's okay.
The tide comes in. The tide goes out. Every day something new and shiny is left behind. I stoop and pick it up.
Sometimes, it's something completely different.