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Training Daze
Even a bad example can have a good influence.
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Patricia B. McConnell and Lassie

He was short, only 5' 4" or so, but his broad shoulders and thick arms gave an impression of size and strength. He had close-cropped, steely gray hair, and none of us in his dog-training class had any reason to doubt that he was the Marine he claimed to be.

You’ve never heard of him, but he had as much impact on my life and career as anyone I’ve ever met.

I encountered him (I’ll call him Mark) in 1969, when he stood in the middle of a circle of people and dogs that included me and my adolescent Saint Bernard. This was back when comedian Bill Cosby was young and edgy and the ultimate in cool. And cool my husband and I wanted to be. So cool that, instead of buying silver tableware, we turned my aunt’s wedding-present money into a St. Bernard puppy and named him Cosby, oblivious to her thoughts on the matter.

Cosby arrived as a 15-pound, sevenweek- old pup, and proceeded to barrel through our lives and hearts like a miniature Mack truck. At 10 weeks, he crawled up onto a table and ate our chocolate wedding cake while I was getting married in a bright gold dress to the strains of “Wear Your Love Like Heaven” and my father’s conservative banker friends were rolling their eyes and downing their drinks in shock.

Cosby grew fast, and in short order, we had 100 pounds of furry adolescence on our hands. Determined to be responsible—at least, my 19-year-old version of it—I insisted that we enroll our new dog in a training class. (It is unclear how responsible it was for two impoverished people to get a Saint Bernard in southern California, but that was then—my only excuse.) At the time, training classes were all called “obedience” classes, and were far less common than they are now. It took some digging, but I found an advertisement that looked good, checked out the references at my vet clinic and signed up my by-then seven-month-old Saint Bernard.

Class was held in a parking lot, and Mark told all the participants to stand in a circle and listen up. He talked to us briefly about the importance of being “alpha,” of insisting that our dogs respect us and do what we say, just because we say it. I remember nodding my head in agreement. Surely he was right, this authoritative man who wowed us all with a demonstration of his precisely obedient German Shepherd.

He showed us how to put on a “choke collar” (his words), and how to pop the leash quickly and firmly right after saying “Sit.” He cautioned us to use a strong, authoritative voice, lest our dogs think us weaklings who shouldn’t be respected. A Golden Retriever was brought from the circle for illustration. “Sit!” shouted Mark, as he jerked up on the leash. She sat, her face befuddled but friendly.

We were then charged as a group to try it ourselves. I had already taught Cosby to sit when asked, but I piped out the word with vigor. It was a much less commanding version than the trainer’s, but it was my best attempt at saying “Sit!” with authority. Cosby sat, although slowly. His response was good enough for me, but I threw worried glances toward Mark, afraid he’d see my dog’s reaction as some sort of canine passive resistance and insist that I pop the leash.

Cosby and I were spared, but not the Basenji and his 20-something owner. It seemed the Basenji hadn’t gotten the memo and was ignoring both verbal and physical commands. Congo, I’ll call him, was too busy checking out a dainty Miniature Poodle across the circle. Mark watched with concern, and then brought Congo into the center of the ring to show us how it was done.

“Sit!” he bellowed, and snapped the leash so hard that Congo’s front feet left the ground. Instead of sitting, Congo planted his feet more firmly and looked directly into Mark’s eyes. If I’d known then what I know now, I would’ve seen the hard, cold look in Congo’s eyes and not been so surprised when he lunged at Mark right after he was leash-popped again. To a person, everyone in the circle gasped.

Mark raised his arm, lifting all four of Congo’s feet off the ground. The dog had on a “training” collar, the kind that tightens without stopping until it simply can’t tighten anymore. What happened next was a bit of a blur. I remember Mark yelling, and I remember Congo yowling and screaming and somehow climbing up the leash, almost managing to sink his teeth into the trainer’s arm.

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Submitted by Julie | April 20 2011 |

Just the article I was looking for to share with my neighbors who are using a choke collar on the little shar pei puppy. I just printed out a copy to share with them. Thanx!

Submitted by Anonymous | May 25 2012 |

There are bad actors in all walks of life. The Marine was trained by force so he trains by force. An newlywed let her new pup eat a chocolate cake that could have killed it. Who is more ignorant?

Submitted by Anonymous | May 31 2012 |

The Marine.

Submitted by Anonymous | June 7 2012 |

All you got from this article was the idea that the auther 'let' her puppy eat chocalate cake? I would say you are the ignorant one here.

Submitted by Lorri Pecoraro | August 26 2014 |

Do not judge so quickly, all of you who have dogs and cats know to well how quickly and quietly they can get into trouble eating, drinking something they are not suppose too. Here is the problem they do not know they are not suppose to.

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