[Author’s Note #1: This story is the sequel to How to Save a Dog: Part I, but each is a standalone tale. You can read this piece without first reading its precedent.]
[Author’s Note #2: My translation of Bo’s language is rendered in curly brackets.]
Spoiler alert: I didn’t break my dog’s fifth metatarsal.
I did think about it — although not very seriously. Mache (sounds like “McKee”) may have been the indirect cause of *my* broken metatarsal, but the last thing my family needed was another invalid. So, Mache was allowed to retain full use of her limbs, but things nevertheless remained tense over the following weeks.
True to its prognosis, my broken foot began to heal quickly. A week later, and the pain had mostly faded; a week after that, and I could walk short distances sans-boot; another week after that, and I was boot-free for all but the most strenuous activities.
Thus, for our trip to the park on a Monday evening in late September, things were officially back to “normal”: Taylor supervised Bo’s meandering journey while I slowly pushed our double stroller up the hill.
“I feel like Sisyphus,” I muttered to Australis. “How much do you weigh?”
[Note: About twenty-two pounds, which hardly qualifies as Sisyphean.]
The four of us made it all of fifty yards before Taylor abruptly whipped around and snapped, “Fine!”
“What?” I asked in confusion.
Taylor nodded toward our house. “The dog?”
I listened for a second and recognized Mache’s mournful caterwauling. “Oh yeah. She sucks.”
Taylor: <grunts ambivalently>
I sighed. “I know… she’s so sad when we leave her.”
“Yeah, but she pulls so much. I’d be much more willing to take her places if she didn’t lunge at every dog we saw.”
Behind Taylor, Borealis inched his toes to the edge of the curb, then hopped down to the street. “Gump!” {“Jump!”}
“Hardly,” I muttered. Then, louder, I affirmed, “Yes, Bo! That was just a little jump.”
After quickly repeating the circuit, Bo contested, “Bih gump!” {“Big jump!”} I didn’t bother arguing this time.
“I could go get her?” Taylor suggested.
“Nah, she’s the worst.”
Taylor tweaked his approach. “I should go get her.”
I shrugged. “Whatever, babe. If you get the dog, you’ll have to be the one to walk her. I don’t want to put the unnecessary stress on my foot yet.”
Taylor: <grunts in resignation> “Ok, I’ll be right back.”
Bo watched in alarm as Taylor walked back toward our house. “Da-dee?” {“Daddy?”}
“Daddy’s going to get the puppy,” I explained. “He’ll be right back.”
Bo didn’t look convinced.
“Let’s keep walking. Daddy will catch up really soon, I promise.”
In response, Bo took a tentative step back toward our house.
When Taylor and Mache appeared several minutes later, they discovered Borealis creeping toward the house as I impotently circled him with the stroller.
Bo excitedly jabbered, “Dah-ee and puh-pee cum-min to pahk!” {“Daddy and puppy coming to park!”}
“Yes, buddy, Daddy and puppy are coming to the park,” I parroted.
Mache clawed at the road as though she were ice-picking up a glacier. Taylor hustled behind her, ineffectually muttering, “Mache! Mache, slow down!”
“Wow, so great to have the whole family together,” I deadpanned.
Even with the extra baggage, we successfully made it to the park, which thankfully was nearly empty. A couple older toddlers chased each other while parents looked on. Bo started for the sand pit, where he began methodically trickling handfuls of dirt atop his head as though christening himself into some weird earth cult.
“Ah, Bo, do you have to do that?” I moaned.
Borealis regarded me solemnly as he baptized himself once more.
“Of course you do,” I answered myself. There was little benefit to stopping the deluge now; bath time already loomed on the horizon.
I removed Australis from the stroller and carried her over to the play structure. She toddled over and pulled herself up onto the first stair. As she did, one of the toddlers ran up and started asking questions about my baby. “How old is she? Can she climb stairs? What’s her name?”
Thus engaged, I didn’t notice the arrival of our nextdoor neighbors and their dog, Foxtrot. These neighbors, the Joneses, live down the hill from us — the opposite side from Hansel and Gretel, who feature in Z is for Zoo. The Joneses moved in when Borealis and Foxtrot were both ten pound babies. Now, they’re each two years older and twenty pounds heavier.
Unfortunately, Foxtrot’s thirty-pound stature does little to dissuade Mache from the notion that Foxtrot is an imminent threat to the security of our yard… and Mache has no problem making her opinions known. If you’ve read The Birth of Borealis: Part I, you may recall that Mache imperiled a rather climactic moment with that same relentless barking, although the object of her ire then was Foxtrot’s doggy predecessor. That dog (and its family) moved out shortly after Bo’s birth, but they were, of course, replaced by Foxtrot and Co.
So, needless to say, we had a strong inkling that this rivalry would develop, and we even tried to preclude Mache’s animosity by introducing the dogs early in Foxtrot’s life. However, her owners didn’t like the idea of our seventy-pound polar bear mix beating up on a young puppy that they mistakenly thought was a purebred Bernese Mountain Dog — and by the time their misapprehension came to light, Mache’s hatred was already firmly entrenched.
As a result, I was extremely surprised when, at the park, I glanced up to see Mache sprint toward a newly-arrived Foxtrot. It’s incredibly unlike Taylor to allow Mache off-leash, especially when anyone else is around. I figured that he and Foxtrot’s owner, Greg, must have come to a hasty agreement to let the lopsided match play out, just this once.
Mache immediately tore after Foxtrot, who dashed away while yelping like a — well, for lack of a better term, a little “female dog”. Everything seemed good-natured for about five seconds, but then Mache caught up to Foxtrot, bit her neck, and pinned her to the ground. Then everyone started screaming, and I realized that something might be amiss.
Greg and Taylor pounced on the pair of pooches and quickly wrestled them apart. Neither looked happy, but Taylor especially looked furious. (Not that anyone besides me could tell. Taylor’s expressions aren’t exactly an open book.) After forcing Mache to the ground, he sat on her and fumed. Greg, meanwhile, took his dog and three daughters and set off along the walking trail.
I looked around to locate Bo. He had shifted his play to the slides and was now shedding sand profusely. Good — this was an appropriate time to practice playing independently. I swept up Australis and reconvened with Taylor.
“Why did you let her off the leash!?”
“I didn’t.” He held up Mache’s harness as evidence. One of the straps had been completely severed.
“Wait, what?” I spluttered. “She ripped through the harness?”
Taylor: <grunts in angry affirmation>
I looked around. Greg and his daughters were already halfway around the walking track. “So… I guess it’s time to leave?”
“Yeah. I don’t think we can stay.”
He looped the leash and secured it snugly around Mache’s neck. Checking the fit, he grimly muttered, “You’re a dead dog.”
Against their wishes, I plopped both kids into the stroller. Just as we were about to depart, Greg returned to the playground with Foxtrot in tow. The mutt cowered against her owner, and recalcitrant Mache growled menacingly.
Attempting to cut the tension, I blithely remarked, “Oh, Greg, I don’t want you to worry… Mache doesn’t attack dogs she doesn’t know. She only attacks the dogs of our friends.”
Greg’s resulting glare assured me that he no longer fell into the latter category. I was instantly cowed.
Taylor, thankfully, had a better approach. “Let us know if Foxtrot ends up having any medical bills. We’ll cover them, of course. Again, I’m really sorry that this happened.”
As we walked home, Taylor held Mache’s collar in a vice-like grip. “I wish I had my Glock with me,” he gritted out between clenched teeth.
“Hey, that’s like that verse that I just put in my latest story!” I laughed, then quoted Numbers 22:29. “‘I wish there were a sword in my hand, for now I would kill you!’ Although, of course, Balaam was talking to a donkey, not a dog.”
Taylor: <grunts indifferently>
I sobered quickly. “Well, anyway, it’s good that you didn’t have a gun. You would have been charged with intentional infliction of emotional distress, or at least felony menacing with a deadly weapon.”
Taylor glowered at Mache, whose flattened ears finally conveyed some modicum of remorse. “Hmm.”
I didn’t want to further probe his sincerity of wrath, so I asked, “Do you think Foxtrot will need to go to the vet?”
Taylor: <grunts ambivalently>
“Do you think they’ll sue us?”
Taylor: <grunts ambivalently>
“You know, you’re not great company right now.”
Taylor sighed. “I’m sorry, I’m just really upset. Maybe it’s time for us to send her back to the farm.”
Taylor referred to the farm in eastern Colorado where Mache’s parents — and countless other relatives — still live. When we adopted her as a tiny puppy, the breeder charged us, “If things change and you ever have to surrender her, don’t bring her to a pound. Bring her back here, and we’ll always take her back.”
I shuddered a bit at Taylor’s pronouncement. In the past, I’ve thrown around the idea of surrendering Mache — in the same way I throw around the idea of sending our kids to boarding preschool or withholding affection until Taylor helps me clean. I thrive on yelling and issuing empty threats (both of which indisputably render me a poor wife/mother).
Taylor, however, does not issue empty threats. And so, for the first time in the four-and-a-half years we’ve owned Mache, I was suddenly scared that we would actually give her up… and I wasn’t ok with the idea.
With that, Taylor and Mache pulled ahead of us and traveled the rest of the way home in silence. Meanwhile, I was stuck managing the stroller and fending off Bo’s chatter.
At one point, he demanded, “Wahf guh fih nuh buh.” {“Watch <gibberish>.”}
“What?”
“Wahf, guh fih nuh buh!”
“Watch what?”
“Wahf, guh-fih-nuh-buh!”
”Buddy, I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
With each iteration, Bo’s request became more spirited and less coherent. Unfortunately, it took me several minutes to puzzle through his request.
Over the past few months, we’ve started allowing Bo — in moderation — to watch narrated animations of Eric Carle books. For example, we’ll read The Very Hungry Caterpillar, then watch the corresponding video. Unfortunately, “guh-fih-nuh-buh” did not immediately reveal itself as one such animation.
“WAHF, GUH-FIH-NUH-BUH!” Bo demanded for the umpteenth time, and finally, I guessed, “Wait — are you saying ‘The Grouchy Ladybug’!?”
Bo nodded, then calmly repeated, “Wahf, Guh Fih Nuh Buh.” {“Watch The Grouchy Ladybug.”}
I laughed. “Yeah, no. Maybe when we get home.”
In fact, I relented when we got home.
“Ok, Bo, go sit in your high chair so that Aza can’t grab the phone.”
Aza, thus foiled, glowered dramatically at me, then clung to my legs and loudly fake-cried. I wasn’t fooled, but I picked her up anyway.
Turning to Taylor, I identified the elephant in the room. “So what are we going to do about the dog?”
Taylor sighed loudly. “Let’s talk about it after I email Greg. For some reason, I don’t have his number.” He then disappeared into the spare room/office to send a suitably penitent email.
A few minutes later, he returned to the dining room. Bo was still watching Guh Fih Nuh Buh, so I turned and addressed my morose husband. “Ok, so it seems like our options are ‘give her back to the farm’ or ‘hire a trainer’. ‘Do nothing’ is no longer an option, and ‘train her ourselves’ hasn’t been effective either.”
“I still like the handgun option,” Taylor grumbled.
“No, you don’t. You’re just saying that.”
Taylor: <grunts in reluctant agreement>
“So, what?”
“I don’t know. I think I just want to be done with her.”
I shifted uncomfortably. “I think that’s the easiest option… but not the best option. It’s just, giving up. And once we give up with the dog, what’s to stop us from giving up with our marriage, or our kids?”
“Those are different. She’s a dog. We’re people. And, that’s a slippery slope fallacy.”
I acknowledged the critique with a shrug, then batted Aza’s pudgy fingers out of my mouth. “Cut that out. And yeah, I get what you’re saying, but still. I think getting rid of her wouldn’t show well on our ability to parent four kids.” I put on my mock-Taylor voice. “‘Oh, we couldn’t handle two kids and a dog, but we’re pretty sure four kids will be a breeze.’”
Taylor sighed. “Ok, look, I know that the ‘right’ choice is to exhaust every option before we give up, but it’s hard to stomach the cost of a trainer.”
“Well… we’ve already ruled out doing it ourselves. And professionals always cost money.”
And how! In the months leading up to this incident, we had already explored several options for dog training. While methods vary, the consistent element is this: it’s dang expensive. Thankfully, we wouldn’t be bearing the cost alone, since my parents had very graciously offered to cover half. (Thank you, parents!)
Taylor: <grunts in financial anguish> “How much was the quote from the gal in your parents’ neighborhood?”
“A thousand per week, and she’ll board Mache for two weeks. So, at the very least, she wouldn’t bark at Foxtrot because she literally wouldn’t be here.”
“Ok babe. Make it happen.”
As if on cue, Bo shrieked, “Ah duhn!” {“All done!”} and held out my phone.
I pocketed it and brightly announced, “Alrighty, let’s get you kids some dinner.”
Later that night, I redoubled my efforts to find a suitable trainer, and I started by checking out the young lady who lives in my parents’ neighborhood.
I got the impression she’s just starting out — mostly because she runs her business solely through social media. After Googling in vain for a corresponding website, I perused the girl’s Instagram page. It was predominantly as I had expected: pictures and videos of the trainer walking dogs much better behaved than my own, presumably due to her influence.
There was nothing that screamed, I am an ax-murderer who will take your money and then sell your dog to a fighting ring! — but there was also no mention of a guarantee. What if we spent all that money, received back an unrepentant dog, and were left with no recourse? I decided I would call in the morning to gather more info.
The next morning, however, flew by. As I prepped the kids for our weekly sleepover down in Colorado Springs, I gathered Mache’s belongings, too. My parents had graciously offered for her to stay at their house for the upcoming week. I gratefully accepted. I didn’t want to take the risk that a barking Mache would convince Greg, who had absolved Taylor through email, to change his mind and press charges anyway.
Tuesday afternoon flew by as well. Once distanced from the problem of Mache’s fatal attraction, I decided to put off dog-related stuff in favor of doing not-dog-related stuff. (That usually means knitting or writing.)
All of that is to say that I didn’t get around to contacting the trainer until Wednesday morning. Upon calling, I quickly learned two things: 1) she did not, in fact, offer a guarantee of any sort, and 2) a dog needing such serious behavioral modification would require three weeks of training, not two.
I ended the phone call in tears. We had absolutely not budgeted for an extra week of training, and I could hardly ask my parents to cover more of the cost. Alas, we were back to square one, so I began my search once more.
I assessed and rejected numerous options. They either failed to provide a guarantee or else were even more expensive than the Colorado Springs gal — or had another glaring issue. At one point, I found a trainer that I loved, and I was fully ready to commit — only to discover that he was based out of Seattle.
Finally, I Googled “dog behavior training Denver guarantee” and clicked on the first result, which was for a multinational training organization that originated in Australia. Their guarantee was the “lifetime of support” sort, not the “money-back” sort — but nevertheless, I was comforted by the knowledge that we would have some recourse if Mache proved to be untrainable.
Notably, the company’s website did not list a price, which suggested that it might be prohibitive. Still, thinking that I had little to lose by inquiring, I filled out and submitted the estimate request. This is what I said:
Mache comes from a long line of livestock guard dogs, and her ingrained guarding behavior manifests in a variety of ways — most obviously, in her inappropriate barking. She will bark at anything that moves: squirrels, old ladies, cars, and especially dogs. We have tried numerous times to fix Mache’s behavior, but our own ignorance and ineptitude have rendered each of these attempts a failure — so we just settled for having a dog that we kinda hate.
Recently, though, Mache has developed a behavior that we cannot ignore: a dangerous fixation on the nextdoor neighbor dog. Even a glimpse of Foxtrot, a small Aussie mix, will send Mache spiraling into a frothing, barking frenzy. Recently, we encountered our neighbors at the park, and Mache literally tore through her three-point harness, rushed Foxtrot, and pinned her by the neck to the ground. It took both my husband and Foxtrot’s owner to separate the pair. Foxtrot was not seriously hurt, but we will seemingly never have a good relationship with our neighbors again. At this point, however, I think I would settle for a civil one.
It feels like we have three options: move, surrender Mache, or pay someone else to do what we could not (i.e. fix our training techniques and Mache’s behavior). We are exploring several training options, but I like the guarantee offered by yours.
Please get back to me with an estimate, and maybe our goals will align!
You may be wondering what my kids were doing while I conducted this exhausting — but not exhaustive — search and submission. After sending the above plea for help, I went to determine just that.
“Mommy!” I heard as I entered the living room. Lest you think that: 1) Bo would express such excitement at my presence, or 2) Aza’s language has expanded to include multisyllabic words, I should clarify that the speaker was my mother, who was reading the conclusion of Owl Babies. Bo watched in rapt attention, while Aza, who has a knack for finding such things, was chewing on a remote. After a stray bite turned on the TV, I swapped out her toy for a less-electronic maraca. Though disgruntled, she nevertheless began to shake the instrument as though it were personally responsible for the loss of her beloved remote.
As my mother set down the book, I crouched down beside Bo and murmured, “Do you know that you’re sucking your thumb right now?”
Bo glowered at me and petulantly replied, “Yesh. Goh-wi-wah suck thumb.” {“Yes. Gorilla sucks [his] thumb.”}
I glanced at my mother. “Does Gorilla suck his thumb in Goodnight Gorilla?”
My mother shrugged. “Maybe he saw a gorilla at the zoo?”
“And he would remember that from back in February?” The last time we went to the zoo was for Bo’s second birthday. (Notably, our only other visit is chronicled in Z is for Zoo.)
“He remembers the giraffes,” she asserted.
“Um, no, I’m pretty sure he only remembers the Animoji giraffe video you sent us — you know, the one that talksabout giraffes at the zoo.”
“Whatever. Anyway, kids who suck their thumb are less likely to develop allergies.”
“And more likely to need braces.”
“Well, he’ll stop eventually,” my mother concluded, and I guess time will tell if she’s right.
“So, changing subjects, but we’ll actually be bringing Mache home with us today.”
“What? Why? I told you she was welcome to stay here until the trainer was ready to take her.”
“Yeah, but I called the trainer, and it turns out that she would charge us an extra thousand dollars.”
“Oh. Ouch.”
“Yeah, my thoughts exactly. So we’ll just figure out a trainer who’s up by us. I requested an estimate from a pretty highly-rated guy, so hopefully they’ll get back to us soon?”
“Hopefully!”
A couple hours later, after my mother had read scores of books, cleaned up dozens of messes, and given a handful of pep talks, it was time for me to put back on my metaphorical I’m a Real Adult hat. I packed Bo, Aza, and Mache into my car, and then we were on our way back to Golden.
Less than five minutes into our drive, I received a call from a number I didn’t recognize. Such an occurrence is not exactly unusual during election season, but my spam callers generally have Colorado Springs area codes — like me. In contrast, this unknown number originated from Denver, which gave me pause. Maybe it was a prospective dog trainer?
“Hello?” I tentatively answered.
“Hello!” exploded an exuberant reply. For a second, I thought I might be speaking to Clinton Kelly from What Not to Wear.
“Is this Holly?” the voice continued.
“Yes, this is she,” I peeped.
“Hi! I’m calling because you submitted some info about your dog —” <long pause> “— Mache?”
I smiled. “Yes, and props to you for saying it correctly!”
The man chuckled. “Yeah, I appreciated your pronunciation guide! Anyway, my name is Clint. I do the office work for Mr. Trainer, who of course does all the work with the dogs!”
[Note: These are, of course, pseudonyms.]
“Um, yeah! Hi.”
“Anyway, so tell me about this dog of yours! It sounds like she’s quite the barker.”
“Oh, man, is she ever….”
And so, for the next half hour, I divulged all my doggy woes to Clint. He was the perfect office manager — sympathetic to my plight (“that sounds so stressful!”), dismissive of Taylor’s and my faults (“it‘s so hard to figure it out on your own!”), and effusive in his praise of Mr. Trainer (“he’s never met a dog he couldn’t train, and yours won’t be the first!”). By the time he quoted a price that was below our original budget for a next-day appointment, I was already sold.
I only just managed to squeak out, “Let me talk to my husband first?”
“Oh, for sure,” Clint said. “I’ll be in the office for a little while longer, but if you call after noon, you’ll talk to my coworker David. He’s really great, and he’ll get you set right up with an appointment!”
After we hung up, I left a message for Taylor, asking him to return my call, and then finally checked back in with my kids. Australis was asleep, which was desirable and unsurprising. However, Bo was also asleep, which was undesirable — although, admittedly, unsurprising. Apparently, the droning of my conversation with Clint was not stimulating enough to overcome Bo’s proclivity for northbound naps.
[Note: This is never a problem on the way *to* my mother’s house; Bo’s near-palpable excitement is plenty energizing. Returning home, however, does not hold the same appeal.]
Resigned to the unfortunate rescheduling of both kids’ naps, I listened to an audiobook, prayed about the dog training situation, and enjoyed a rare hour of solitude. Both children roused just as I pulled into the driveway, which brought my solitude to an abrupt conclusion. After dragging the kids inside and forcing Bo to pee on the big boy potty, I wrestled him and his sister into their respective highchairs for an afternoon snack.
Taylor called as I finished slicing an apple. I filled him in on the situation with our dog training options, concluding that, if we wanted to resolve the situation as fast as possible, Mr. Trainer was seemingly our best option.
Taylor: <grunts in continued financial anguish> “It’s just so much money!”
“I know babe. But amortize it over the course of her lifetime. Would you pay fifteen bucks a month to have a dog that you didn’t hate?”
“No.”
“Seriously, Taylor, I need you to work with me here!”
“I would pay fifteen bucks a month to *not* have a dog.”
“That option is not currently on the table. Should I schedule Mr. Trainer or not?”
Taylor sighed. “I guess so. I hope it’s an instantaneous fix.”
“Well, that is how the reviews make it seem,” I answered. “Although there’s going to have to be a lot of legwork on our end.”
Taylor: <grunts in dislike>
“Yeah, well, I kinda agree with you there. I’ll call them back and get us booked for tomorrow. Love you babe!”
“Love you too!”
Both kids were still eating apple, so I immediately called the training company back.
“Hello!” boomed an ebullient voice which I was certain belonged to Clint.
“Um, hi….” I started slowly. What if my guess was wrong?
“This is David. How can I help you?”
I was glad I hadn’t guessed, and annoyed that Clint hadn’t warned me, Just fyi, you definitely won’t be able to tell us apart over the phone!
Regaining my metaphorical footing, I said, “My name is Holly, and I spoke to Clint earlier?”
“Oh yes, he told me that you might call back! Are you still interested in that morning appointment for tomorrow?”
I answered in the affirmative, then signed over my firstborn as payment. Just kidding! Although, the financial aspect did feel that severe. However, having talked to God (and also Taylor), I was fairly confident that my choice was a good one — or at least, not a very bad one.
Either way, we would find out in the morning!
It shouldn’t surprise you that my mother was willing to drop everything and drive up to watch Bo and Aza during the dog training appointment — because she’s just that awesome.
[Note: Does it seem like I’m overly complimentary to my parents? Yes? Ok, good, because they also read this blog and I need them to like me.]
As my mother took care of my children, and Taylor continued to work in the office, I hovered anxiously by the front window. I still can’t explain why I was *so* nervous. A logical explanation might be, Because you were worried he would judge you for being such bad dog owners? — but that wasn’t it. I was actually pretty confident that Mr. Trainer would be down-to-earth and amiable. One does not merit so many five-star reviews by rolling in and barking, “Alright, slackers, it’s time to stop sucking!”
Anyway, regardless of the reason, my heart was in my throat as an unfamiliar pickup truck rolled to a stop across the street. Since phone navigation has not universally led people to our correct location (the most notable instance being the climax of The Birth of Borealis: Part I), I raced outside to assure Mr. Trainer that he was, in fact, at the correct house.
An athletically-built man in his fifties stepped out of the truck and walked toward me. Upon seeing his face covering, I called, “Oh, should I grab a mask too?”
Mr. Trainer pulled off his mask. “Nope. If you’re ok with no masks, that works for me too.” We did not, however, shake hands — an omission that left me feeling like even more of a child.
Ah, yes, there it is — the reason for my anxiety. If you know me personally, or read between the lines in my blog stories, then you may know that I struggle with a youth complex. I continually worry that people are going to assess my age and find me wanting, and though I have virtually no evidence to support these feelings, I’ve always have the impression that those around think that I’m too young — too young to have this internship, too young to get engaged, to get married, to get pregnant, to have two kids, etc. Since turning twenty-five, my mental block has thawed somewhat, but I still remain incredibly self-conscious when I meet anyone who seems to be much older than I am.
But, I digress. Mr. Trainer was polite and generous, and by no means did he make me feel small for being half his age.
Anyway, it quickly became apparent that we were going to be one of those testimonials that goes like, Omg, he walked in and our dog just instantly became like a brand-new pooch! Basically from the moment Mr. Trainer taught us to “speak dog”, Mache reverted back into the super-mellow pup that we used to know.
Sitting at the kitchen table, he explained, “Dogs communicate by growling and snapping, and also with their body language.” Gesturing at Mache, he continued, “So you see how her ears just went up at that sound? You, as the pack leaders, need to communicate to her that that sound is not actually a threat — otherwise, she feels like, ‘Oh, Mom and Dad aren’t doing anything about this threat, so I guess I need to step up and be the pack leader.’ Does that make sense?”
Taylor and I nodded.
“So we’re going to mimic that growl — which is like dog language for, ‘Stop that!’ — we’re gonna growl like this: ba! It’s important to have it be pretty throaty, like a real growl. You could also do ‘grr’, but that will irritate your throat pretty quickly.”
Taylor and I nodded again.
“It may feel a bit weird and unfamiliar at first, so would one of you like to go first in practicing?”
Taylor eyed me knowingly and grunted. Somehow, that monosyllabic utterance fully communicated, There is literally no way that I am going first because you already growl all the time and I hate embarrassing stuff like this.
I stood up and shrugged. “I guess it’ll be me!”
Not surprisingly, I had the growling down pat. Mr. Trainer coached me — and eventually Taylor — through distance control, door behavior, barking, walking, etc. Through every exercise, Mache behaved admirably, and we tried to keep up.
As our session drew to a close, Mr. Trainer warned us, “You have to be dedicated and vigilant. If you are not consistent with her, she’ll never be able to get past her fixation with Foxtrot.” (The smaller dog, notably, did not make an appearance that morning.)
As we had all morning, Taylor and I nodded dutifully.
“And, you know, it really helps us out if you leave a good review!”
My smile was a bit forced. As though I need more writing tasks. “We’ll see!”
I bid Mr. Trainer good day, then looked down at Mache. “Alright dog… I think you have a stay of execution.”
Taylor: <grunts in humor>
I sighed. “And all it took to save her was a fat check.”
In short order, Taylor departed for work, my mother headed back to the Springs, and Australis went down for a nap. Thus, I had only Borealis for company as I practiced training Mache once more.
Mache: <growl>
“Ba!”
Mache: <growl>
“Ba! Ba!”
Bo looked up excitedly. “Pay bah bah ba-see!” {“Play Ba Ba Black Sheep!”}
I sighed. “Alexa, play Ba Ba Black Sheep!”
The dulcet tones of everyone’s favorite ovine nursery rhyme accompanied my attempts to train Mache… and that auditory pairing has generally continued for the last month.
So the real question is: did we actually end up with a well-behaved dog?
The answer is… sort of.
Mache is indisputably calmer and sweeter these days — and we’ve mostly stopped hating her. After all, no one can resist our pooch when she’s at her best: loving, gentle, quiet, etc. For that reason, the training was [mostly] worth the cost. She still barks, but our new training techniques quickly silence her — in general. However, she is still unrepentant when it comes to aggression against Foxtrot, so Taylor or I must supervise all backyard outings if we are to continue training Mache’s behavior.
That’s the thing, though: behavior modification takes work and time. Neither of us is super eager to hang out in the yard with Mache unless the other has an eye on Bo and Aza, so our training is mostly limited to snippets of time carved out from our more important work of raising our human children.
I am confident that regular practice of the techniques shown us by Mr. Trainer would eventually result in a dog who would bark significantly less — or maybe even not at all. However, Taylor and I have not [yet] restructured our lives such that we can devote vast swaths of uninterrupted time to training Mache (although, of course, it is our intention to do so… eventually). She continues to get the dregs of our attention, which has led merely to these modest results.
Several weeks after meeting with Mr. Trainer, I tried to write a review — but all I could come up with was: Lol, can’t believe we spent so much money to not actually follow through!
As I stared at my lackluster review, Mache let loose with a fresh round of barking. I looked up to ba! at her — but Borealis and Australis beat me to it.
“Ba! Ba! Ba!” they both snapped.
And suddenly, I had it. Well, my husband and I didn’t follow through — but don’t worry, because our kids will!