Béla recently completed her 3rd dog course. She has yet another diploma, and has won yet another end-of-class challenge. The first challenge she won was a Sit-off. This was was a freaking obstacle course, WITH various focusing tasks thrown in! Nothing can shake her.
The class she just finished was coined 'Middle Management', a class designed for dogs that are young, in between 1-3 years, basically suffering from the 'Terrible Two's'....
The first class I enrolled her in was the highly-suggested Beginning Behavior course, located in the adoption center she hailed from. The second class, Agility - was also highly suggested, per people at various dog parks who witnessed her flying through the air.
*I would like to note that the wonder of those who have seen her fly is...er, noteable. One guy filmed her on his phone, from afar - and then told me he was going to play it off as his own dog!
Enrolling her is always exciting, as I cannot know what behaviors will come out or what useful information we'll leave with.
Attending class with her in the classes is always heart-stopping. I'm nervous, for both her and myself. I would like to come off looking smooth and suave as a parent/trainer, and I'd like her to look calm and accomplished.
I wonder how she feels when we jump in our jank car, heading somewhere other than an open green space. Does she think, 'Aw, mom, do we have to?', or is she happy to socialize and showcase her abilities?
As a youngster who was forced into some classes and begged herself into others, I am no stranger to the classroom. In my childhood, my mother enrolled me into the following classes/clubs:
Karate
Cooking
Swimming
Gymnastics
Ballet...& Tap...& Jazz
4-H
Sign Language
Brownies -- into Girl Scouts -- into, yes -- Junior Girl Scouts. (That sash was FULL when my time there ended.)
Obviously, one or two of those sucked more than the others. The swimming thing didn't take. The whole hanging with livestock thing is but a bad memory. But my mom made sure I knew...if I wanted to do the good stuff, I had to put my time in with the geek stuff as well. No dance if I didn't go to 4-H that week. So every Wednesday, I pledged my hands to greater service, my heart to greater loyalty (oh God!, it's all coming back!).............so that I could shake it on the subsequent Monday and Tuesday.
I have enrolled Bela into the classes for the same reasons I believe my mom enrolled me.
I want her life to be so big! I want her to encounter so many different people [dogs], situations, places and things! I want her head to spin with the variety and spice of life!
While the classes are costly and time, too, is not free - I will continue to enroll her in various courses, over the years. I may have her dabble in dock-diving (I swear she would be so good!), try her hand at Tricks 101 and...maybe even take a paw-painting class.
(I'm kidding on that last one. I don't think such a class exists. If it does - people are more whacked than I thought.)
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Memento
Fall has ended; my dog-walking gear must change. The vest I have used so routinely certainly looks more abused than used. All three zippers are broken. It's stained. And it never really fit that beautifully in the first place. I should toss it, I say to myself. Don't be a hoarder.
But as I prepare to throw the mustard-brown vest away, I pause. The pocket conjures up more than pockets usually can. I recall the day I found the pocket dripping onto the hardwood floor. It was a steady drip, rather quick. I was perplexed. How on earth did a section of my jacket get soaked without my knowledge?
And then I realized...Béla and I had been out a little before, and I had her "obey-me" treats in that there pocket. It was saliva-soaked.
Once I understood the substance, I was even more in shock! How could she have lost THAT MUCH saliva, sucking on my pocket? How long had that taken her? How did I not notice her, standing near the kitchen chair, oddly still, eyes glossed over, like a child sucking its thumb?
"Gross", I exclaimed! "Béla!"
I checked the pocket. The once hard, crusty dog cookies resembled crumbs of biscotti, after the coffee. I couldn't even feed them to her. (As if I should have!...rewarded such behavior!?) But I wanted to feed them to her, for sure. For all of her hard work. For really loving food, the way I do. I get it. I have eaten a piece of cake that I had thrown in the garbage. We are but one, I said to her, lovingly. (And...actually...she was less savage in her endeavor. She was simply trying to get a cookie out of a pocket -- not a piece of cake out of a garbage can. Oh - and also, she is A DOG...)
Reminiscing, I hold the jacket close. So many walks with her in this! So many treats dispensed from these [now dry] pockets! Fully-equipped with two outer, zippered pockets and even an inner, perfect for holding all the needed items: keys, phone, poop bags, treats. I admit, I also liked the way the color was similar to that of her fur. We looked like we belonged together.
I am paralyzed in my attempt to put the vest in the garbage. I liken it to a baby blanket. An item that recalls a soul. A token that reeks of love. I'm not sure what to do with it. I might up-and-toss it, in an effort to 'own less, live more' or some bullshit theory like that... I might cut out a swatch and put it in my jewelry box, for the day that she comes sweeping back to me, in a wave of recollection, while attempting to adorn myself. I might just hang it back up in my closet, tattered and torn, filthy and worn....so that every single time I put it on in the future, the past is with me as well.
But as I prepare to throw the mustard-brown vest away, I pause. The pocket conjures up more than pockets usually can. I recall the day I found the pocket dripping onto the hardwood floor. It was a steady drip, rather quick. I was perplexed. How on earth did a section of my jacket get soaked without my knowledge?
And then I realized...Béla and I had been out a little before, and I had her "obey-me" treats in that there pocket. It was saliva-soaked.
Once I understood the substance, I was even more in shock! How could she have lost THAT MUCH saliva, sucking on my pocket? How long had that taken her? How did I not notice her, standing near the kitchen chair, oddly still, eyes glossed over, like a child sucking its thumb?
"Gross", I exclaimed! "Béla!"
I checked the pocket. The once hard, crusty dog cookies resembled crumbs of biscotti, after the coffee. I couldn't even feed them to her. (As if I should have!...rewarded such behavior!?) But I wanted to feed them to her, for sure. For all of her hard work. For really loving food, the way I do. I get it. I have eaten a piece of cake that I had thrown in the garbage. We are but one, I said to her, lovingly. (And...actually...she was less savage in her endeavor. She was simply trying to get a cookie out of a pocket -- not a piece of cake out of a garbage can. Oh - and also, she is A DOG...)
Reminiscing, I hold the jacket close. So many walks with her in this! So many treats dispensed from these [now dry] pockets! Fully-equipped with two outer, zippered pockets and even an inner, perfect for holding all the needed items: keys, phone, poop bags, treats. I admit, I also liked the way the color was similar to that of her fur. We looked like we belonged together.
I am paralyzed in my attempt to put the vest in the garbage. I liken it to a baby blanket. An item that recalls a soul. A token that reeks of love. I'm not sure what to do with it. I might up-and-toss it, in an effort to 'own less, live more' or some bullshit theory like that... I might cut out a swatch and put it in my jewelry box, for the day that she comes sweeping back to me, in a wave of recollection, while attempting to adorn myself. I might just hang it back up in my closet, tattered and torn, filthy and worn....so that every single time I put it on in the future, the past is with me as well.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
En Route: Walk This Way
I've always been one for walks. I grew up in the country, where walking the dead-end road after school was really, my main pastime.
Walking in the city involves many more diversions, turns and possibility. I like to let whimsy guide me, the route varying according to the fickleness of my feet.
Acquiring a dog only made my walks more pleasant - albeit a little more frequent, a little longer & sometimes entirely dependent upon a need to defecate.
I imagined that Bela and I would amble along, appreciating sights and sounds, never knowing where our path might take us.
Not the case.
They were not kidding when they said dogs are creatures of habit. For the route (different routes according to time of day) must remain the same...or my four-legged friend just won't go.
In general, I honor this apparent need of hers. But every now and then, I'll see something that urges me to deviate from our normal route.
That man lurking next to a tree 1/2 a block up? We're turning left here, missy. An actual barricade - like streetwork? We're detouring, just like the sign tells us to, sweetheart.
I admit that occasionally, I try to re-route her due to a selfish desire. Bela! -- there appears to be the loveliest tree up ahead on the right....can't we go see it?
She simply cannot oblige.
If you try to move her in the 'wrong' direction, her anger emerges in the form of a standoff.
"Hey....walk this way, Béla", I say.
No -- THIS way, Kelly, she replies, her head held high.
While I can often alter her stubborn stance with a bribe (i.e. liver chews), for the most part, I give in.
I put the treat back in my pocket, shake my head in wonder and affection, and continue down the path she has chosen.
Walking in the city involves many more diversions, turns and possibility. I like to let whimsy guide me, the route varying according to the fickleness of my feet.
Acquiring a dog only made my walks more pleasant - albeit a little more frequent, a little longer & sometimes entirely dependent upon a need to defecate.
I imagined that Bela and I would amble along, appreciating sights and sounds, never knowing where our path might take us.
Not the case.
They were not kidding when they said dogs are creatures of habit. For the route (different routes according to time of day) must remain the same...or my four-legged friend just won't go.
In general, I honor this apparent need of hers. But every now and then, I'll see something that urges me to deviate from our normal route.
That man lurking next to a tree 1/2 a block up? We're turning left here, missy. An actual barricade - like streetwork? We're detouring, just like the sign tells us to, sweetheart.
I admit that occasionally, I try to re-route her due to a selfish desire. Bela! -- there appears to be the loveliest tree up ahead on the right....can't we go see it?
She simply cannot oblige.
If you try to move her in the 'wrong' direction, her anger emerges in the form of a standoff.
"Hey....walk this way, Béla", I say.
No -- THIS way, Kelly, she replies, her head held high.
While I can often alter her stubborn stance with a bribe (i.e. liver chews), for the most part, I give in.
I put the treat back in my pocket, shake my head in wonder and affection, and continue down the path she has chosen.
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