Kemba’s almost two-and-a-half now, and I guess it’s about time I own up to something: He is not a trained dog.
Oh, sure, he’s house-trained. And he’ll “sit” for you if you care to give him a treat. But by and large, he does whatever he wants.
I meant to have a trained dog this time around. I always had good excuses for Ricky the Beagle’s poor behavior. Vets, breeders, even dog trainers admitted that Beagles are immensely stubborn, and borderline untrainable. On top of that, he was epileptic. But Duck Tollers are eager to please. Intelligent. Motivated. They like to learn.
Kemba had several sessions with a local trainer (I won’t mention her name, because I know she’s ashamed of me as a student), and made some good headway. But I dropped the ball. I lacked the follow-through, the consistency, the discipline to finish the job.
The truth is, my heart wasn’t really in it, for a number of reasons, some even having to do with the philosophy of dog training itself — but I’ll spare you, because they’ll all come out sounding like what they really are: rationalizations. The bottom line is that when my beautiful, upbeat, eager dog wants something, and looks up at me, head tilted, with those big brown eyes, tongue out, tail wagging . . . I can’t say no. Ninety-eight percent of the time this works out, because we like to do the same things. We both want to be outdoors as much as possible, and we’re both hyperactive. After maybe two-to-three hours of writing in my study, I’ll bounce downstairs with Kemba and say to Carol, “He’s getting a little antsy.” She’ll just look at me. “Yeah, right,” she’ll answer. “You mean you’re getting a little antsy.”
And we have our understandings about fairness, my dog and I. He knows, for instance, when we’re hiking in the woods, that I get nervous if I haven’t seen him for a while, and when I call out his name, he has to show his face. Actually, even without a summons, he generally “checks up on me,” fairly often, glancing back before once more plunging ahead and out of sight. And when we get to the end of our excursion, and I’m concerned about an off-leash dog and parking lot traffic, and I say to him firmly, “Now you stay with me” . . . he does. How much more obedience do I need?
Well, I definitely could use a little more at the dog park. This is where it all breaks down. Kemba loves Winslow
Park. So do I. But much as this is a “happy place” for both of us, sometimes there are actually other things I have to get done. And we have to leave. And this appears to not be part of our understanding.
There was the day last week that I’d coaxed Kemba literally half-way up into the back seat of the SUV . . . until he saw Adriana strolling toward the park with Harley the Vizsla He dashed out of the car for a rendezvous, then scampered after his running mate for one more loop around the park’s perimeter. I finally managed to stuff him through the car door again, bushy tail and all . . . and this time he spotted Robin pulling up with Griffen, Winslow’s only other Duck Toller regular and one of Kemba’s best buds. Off he went again, this time for a 15-minute romp.
All told, we’ve now wasted 35 minutes since the first time I’d enticed Kemba to the open door. I’m not pleased. Until he looks at me. The head’s tilted. The tail’s wagging. The tongue is hanging out. The eyes are happy and bright. What? he’s clearly asking. Did I do something wrong?
LOOK FOR A NEW BEAGLE MAN POST EVERY THURSDAY. OR PRETTY CLOSE TO THURSDAY. COULD BE WEDNESDAY. OR FRIDAY. LET’S NOT GET TOO OBSESSIVE HERE.
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