About Giffy, pt. 2: Learning to value soft training methods

I really didn’t have formal training at the outset. I simply watched the dogs when they came into my house. In the early days, someone told me about the “alpha dog” mentality that was popular at the time along with rolling those that had acted up, showing the dogs who was boss. For a time, that was a factor in my work, but I have since discovered a much softer and more effective approach. (For a brilliant refutation of “rolling dogs,” a practice that was widely used when I began working in rescue around 2000, see Suzanne Clothier’s article, “He Just Wants to Say ‘Hi!” It’s one of the most important influences on my training.)

I never believed in physical punishment, but in the early days, I did a lot of yelling/”barking,” as I was trying to establish myself as the dominant member of my pack. That stopped that the day my 140-pound mastiff began to cower when I raised my voice. From that day forward I decided to train from a place of calm and started exploring different approaches.

That softer approach was reinforced as I welcomed increasingly shy-fearful dogs into my home. To be frank, most of them couldn’t handle yelling. They’d become catatonic, shut down. I had to try other approaches, so I tried to see the world from their vantage point. If they cowered when they went outside, I explored ways to make the space seem smaller, safer. And during this period of my evolution, I became a little too indulgent, allowing dogs to hide behind their fear. Case in point, Becca was in my home 2-3 years before I really pushed her to be on a leash.  (See the Fall 2006 Second Chance Newsletter piece entitled “The Shed Dogs” for more of Becca’s back story.)

I only learned of the shortcomings in the indulgent approach when Sarah entered my home. Like Becca, she was seriously undersocialized when she arrived at my house, the result of years in a breeding facility. But, unlike Becca, I pushed Sarah, not hard, but I brought her out into the world more quickly. I’ll never forget the first class I took with Janey Shaddrick, from Rogues & Rascals. Sarah was terrified. In fact, for the entire 8-week class, she stood there.

Doing. Nothing.

I was mortified, as if her failure to engage somehow reflected poorly on me (an attitude I have encountered many, many times since I’ve begun working with people and dogs). I forced myself to check my ego at the door in order to encourage Sarah to blossom a bit. It worked. Although Sarah didn’t really learn many commands in that class, she did learn how to be in a group of other people and dogs. She learned that going out into the world didn’t have to be overwhelming.

I learned at least as much. From Janey, I was reinforced that training softly and patiently was a great way to inspire a dog to work for me. I didn’t have to be heavy-handed. I didn’t even need to use treats, but I did need to observe Sarah, see what she liked. I needed to think creatively in order to help Sarah along, and I needed to appreciate our small, innumerable successes rather than focus on the many challenges that still lay ahead. In that class, Sarah grew to like my touch; she walked by my side calmly, and a couple of times, she even sat on command!

It was progress, and I needed to recognize that.

 

Rescue dog -- Delta dog

Last night, my remarkable rescue dog Sarah was Delta Society certified. To show you just how far she's come, here's her story. . .

Three years ago, Sarah came to me as a foster dog, emaciated, afraid of people, and, I believe, dying. After eating a high-calorie diet for three months as she recuperated in my home, she managed to put on 11 of the 25 pounds she needed to gain, only to lose all of the weight and more when she developed a minor skin infection. Her body was simply too weak to fight it. Luckily, I was able to find a holistic vet, Dr. Fred Pomeroy, who treated her with herbs and supplements and saved her life.

Psychologically, her recovery was much slower. Uncomfortable being in the same room with me if I was holding food, she'd panic and bolt. Part of her tongue was missing from an injury I could only guess at, and it was clear she had suffered profound traumas in the breeding facility that had been her home before coming to Second Chance Animal Rescue. I've been told she lived in a horse stall, and evidence suggests the conditions were deplorable. Her coat was dull, but her eyes flashed fear at the slightest unexpected movement. She was emaciated and terrified. I don't know anything else.

She was vetted and spayed immediately, after which I picked her up and brought her to my house and discovered a huge hematoma, which threatened to need another surgery to drain. In an effort to avoid that, I'd curl up with her, pulling her bony body to me every few hours and placing hotpacks on her abdomen to bring the swelling down. Eventually she learned to enjoy our ritual. She'd relax ever so slightly and hold her leg so I could hold the warm towel against her sunken belly.

Little-by-little I fell in love with her. Maybe it happened when I placed those towels on her, or maybe it occurred as I celebrated each ounce she gained. Maybe it happened when she tried to die as I willed her to live--until a very wise friend, Deb Schneider, told me it was time that Sarah start to fight for herself. I know that I loved her when I accepted that she might not make it. Three months into our journey, she took a turn for the worse. With bloody diarrhea and vomiting multiple times a day, she couldn't keep food down. I agonizingly braced for her inevitable death, but it didn't come.

After six months, she had put on 20 pounds, but still cowered when people approached her. I could see the pain in her eyes and could not approach her with food.I tried taking her to obedience classes, where she literally stood stock still for every hour of an eight-week class, at the end of which, she couldn't even sit. Still, I continued to train her, a daunting task, as the only way I could reward her was by stroking her ear. Treats would send her out of the ring. Eventually, she completed a few dog classes--but we never returned to obedience. I couldn't teach her to sit reliably or to lie down on cue, even with Janey Shaddrick's outstanding guidance and remarkable patience. I didn't really care, either. She was, after all, alive.

Courtesy of Barbara O'Brien Photography

After ten months, my partner Bob and I decided to adopt her as a Christmas present to one another, and Sarah has lived with me ever since.

I consider Sarah one of the greatest blessings I have ever had. In a home with dogs coming and going--170 fosters in ten years--Sarah speaks dog more eloquently than any dog I have ever met. She's the dog I curl up with when I'm having a bad day. She grounds me and makes me kinder. She touches virtually every one who meets her. In fact, early on a woman I rather randomly encountered described Sarah as "a beacon of light" that would draw people to her. It's true, too.

She also told me Sarah and I could change the world.

So I shouldn't have been surprised last summer when I took my mother (who has Alzheimer's) on a walk at a dog park and Sarah focused exclusively on my mom's well-being. That day, I brought my mom on a trail we had no business walking on and only realized my error when we could neither return nor continue safely. Noting the uneven, treacherous path well before I did, Sarah paced between us, nudging me persistently as if scolding me for failing to protect my mother, and circling my mother, perhaps to prevent her from falling.

Eventually, we did make it out of the park safely, but watching Sarah as I tried to assist my mom, I began to consider the fact that this untrainable dog might just have the makings of a therapy dog. So I talked to Bobbi Stark, a Delta certified trainer at AllBreed Obedience who knew Sarah, and surprisingly, she agreed. We decided to teach Sarah basic obedience commands, and then Bobbi would complete a therapy class with her. When we began, an amazing thing happened: Sarah began to take treats from us. After three years, she finally overcame her fear of food.

She also visited a nursing home, where she instinctively learned how to great people and maneuver around wheelchairs. She visited a woman who hadn't spoken in ages, and this woman conversed with us coherently as her caregiver watched on in slack-jawed amazement. Sarah was a natural.

And then Bobbi passed the therapy class with Sarah on her first try, followed by Bob, who passed on his first try, too!

So, when my mom moved into an Ecumen care facility last week, I began to wonder if I could test Sarah. Last night, on a bit of a whim, I did just that.

And she passed.

So now Sarah, my amazing, lovely, rescue dog has been certified to work as a therapy dog with three handlers. Do you know how remarkable that is? She's already visited a nursing home regularly, and I'm working on setting up visits to a memory care unit. We're also talking about working with her in hospice care. Or maybe a veterans' hospital. Or cancer center. Who knows where Sarah will take us?

I constantly feel humbled by this dog and so completely grateful to know her.

Thanks to every one of you who helped her find her way.

Photo by LS Originals