All Dogs Need Some Training!

Our book today is All Dogs Need Some Training by the wise and wonderful Liz Palika, a slim volume from 1997 that contains more simple, straightforward sense than most dog-books manage to display in five times the length.

I know in the past I've pronounced here at Stevereads that I myself am the only non-canine on Earth who should ever presume to write about dogs, but it's not a perfect world, and Liz Palika comes as close to that gold standard as any of you ever will. This book is written from a depth of experience working with and training all kinds of dogs - it's perfect for the first-time dog-owner and the long-time veteran.

Nevertheless, there's a serious flaw running throughout the book, and that flaw is most obvious in the delightful Pam Posey-Tanzey illustrations that crop up every few pages throughout All Dogs Need Some Training.

As some of you may know, I myself opt for virtually no formal training of my own dogs - never have. I teach each newcomer two things: 1) to pay attention to the established dogs who're already here (something they would do anyway, so it's not really hard), and 2) the word 'No' (which means "instantly stop everything you're doing - don't pick and choose, just literally freeze in place)(it's a wonderful all-purpose command, although of course it's to be used sparingly). Usually, that's sufficient - newcomers quickly pick up all the rest.

My reason for such a minimal approach couldn't be simpler: dogs die. They live their lives with a vibrant honesty that humans can't match on their best day, and they lavish enthusiasm on everything, but their metabolisms burn out in hardly any time at all. In a mere ten years, that squirming, bounding puppy is stoutly middle-aged, and things happen with lightning speed after that - by age fifteen, they're very, very old: they don't jump anymore, they don't run around anymore, and they begin to look a little bit haunted. Those of you who've had dogs live longer than fifteen years know what I'm talking about: past that point, they are pure gifts to those who know them, as close to wisdom as their dim and lunging kind ever come. The owner of a sixteen-year-old dog is living with a purified being, a worldly little saint.

Given such a tiny window, I've never seen the point in laying down lots of rules. If that means a very young dog ends up eating a sizable fraction of my possessions (this has happened to me countless times, including one puppy who displayed a taste only for Superman-related items; T-shirts, rolled-up posters, comic books, statues ... all gone in the course of one very Kryptonite summer) before he settles down, so what? I can get more possessions - but I'll never have that dog again, and that dog will be old and stiff, and then gone, in hardly any time at all. Considering the blazing amounts of joy that dog (and all dogs) is going to give me in that time (and considering how many natural freedoms I must take from those dogs - the freedom to hunt, to mate, even to walk around outside at will and unchaperoned), it seems monstrously ungrateful to impose a whole bunch of arbitrary restrictions.

Liz Palika fundamentally disagrees with all that, of course. In her very sane, very rational world-view, the sooner you start training your dog (always patiently, always with love, as she points out over and over again), the happier both you and the dog will be. And her book is full of sensible, easy-going approaches to that training.

All of which would be great, if it weren't for one problem. One fat, smelly, long-eared, flatulent, bossy, clueless problem.

You can probably spot it in Pam's drawings, can't you?

For instance, take the illustration of a human owner warmly embracing her adorable dog. Heartwarming, right? But in that picture, the dog in question is smiling and reciprocating the embrace, when in reality that dog would not only be ignoring the human (as long as the hugging continued unabated) but would be positioned not next to the human but squarely, immovably on top of the human - and not just on top of the human, but on top of the softest, most vulnerable part of the human available. In the real world version of that picture, the human wouldn't be smiling - she'd be cross-eyed in panic with 90 pounds of smelly lard positioned on top of her open throat. And in that real world scenario, she would be crossly expected to keep on hugging the dog, even while she violently asphyxiated.





Or what about that drawing of the human rubbing the dog's belly? Again, touching stuff - but not in the real world. In the real world, the dog would still be accepting an elaborate belly-rub, but the facial expression wouldn't be grateful happiness - nooooo! It would be the bored, slightly impatient ennui of an absolute monarch receiving the adoration she more than anyone else knows she deserves. And if the belly-rubbing stopped, she would heave herself to her stubby little feet and unleash a torrent of rumbling growls at the human who had dared to stop. On good days, these growls would be accompanied by artillery-like volleys of flatulence. On bad days, they would be punctuated by snapping lunges at the loving human owner's face.



And then there's that adorable shot of the dog being examined at the vet's ... sweet, isn't it? But not in the real world! In the real world, that dog would be splayed across the examining table, hysterically crying, spatulate paws flailing fatly in all directions, bovine face wrinkled in abject panic (seismic farting, needless to say), while four burly vet-techs grappled with the dog's enormous tub of blubber as it squirmed in terror from a stethoscope. In reality, the owner would send the vet's office flowers afterwards and spend the next five visits apologizing to everybody.



Things are no better in the book's actual text. Take this:

Why did you get a dog? If you're like most people, you wanted a dog to be a companion, a friend, a confidante, and a protector. You probably wanted someone to play with, and perhaps even a jogging partner. That's asking a lot of anyone; even our human best friends couldn't be all of these things. However, if you help him, a dog can be all of those things to you.

Unless of course the dog in question doesn't care about anything you'd want to confide, unless the confidence is how much you love her. Unless of course the dog in question only has the energy to play for five minutes at a stretch and is so stupid she often forgets in mid-stretch what she's doing. Unless of course the dog in question couldn't protect a fly and wouldn't jog with you if your ass was covered in dog treats.

Or what about this:

Pet owners are more likely to survive a heart attack than people who do not own pets. Pet owners have a more positive outlook on life and have more friends. Researchers also say that pet owners have lower blood pressure than people who do not own pets.

Unless of course the pet in question is so obstinate, obtuse, and just plain dumb that she routinely walks into large, stationary objects ... and then growls at them for assaulting her. Unless of course your 'positive outlook on life' has been soured by having a 90-pound elephant seal stomp herself onto your lap, ignoring all pleas for mercy (and commands to stop, obviously) and gradually drifting off to sleep while your internal organs get squished to jelly and your most prized giblets slowly go numb. Unless the 'more friends' you're supposed to have all found other people to befriend after one too many get-togethers was spiked by nasal, guttural growling and Aurora Borealis farts.

And then there's this:

Don't doubt for a minute that Champ can think; he is capable of learning the names of many different items and people. Not only is this a great game for Champ, but it can come in handy around the house. Tell Champ to find your keys or your shoes. Send Champ after the remote control to the television, or to go find Dad. Plus, it's great fun to show off to your friends!

Unless, that is, those friends have already left, gagging and tearing up, because your apartment has a higher methane content than the atmosphere of Jupiter. Unless, that is, your 'Champ' is so stupid even first-time observers notice it in about ten minutes. Unless, that is, a new roommate, after very little exposure, feels compelled to whisper to you in gravely confidential terms, "I think there's something wrong with your dog."

And there's this last, most bitter item:

When Champ does something right and you tell him "Good boy! Yeah!" and pop a treat in his mouth, he will be much more likely to do the same thing again.

Yes indeed. Unless it's been seven years and you're still waiting for him to do something right. Liz doesn't talk about such a predicament, and Pam doesn't draw it. Probably it's too horrible for them to contemplate.

Don't Let This Happen To You

Poised as we are on the eve of the venerable Westminster Dog Show, some of you out there might find yourselves thinking about getting a dog. Perhaps you'll watch the show - one of the oldest sporting events in the modern world - with an eye towards sizing up each breed. About this we here at Stevereads have two pieces of advice:

1. Recall that all the dogs you'll be seeing are champions, carefully trained not only to meet their breed's specifications but also for tractability, for the ease with which they obey commands. Without that training, you could be left with a dog who's angry, truculent, froward, bossy, brick-stupid, and as gassy as a Louisiana peat-bog.

2. Even after you've considered that point, skip the whole idea. Don't even think about contacting breeders; go to your local dog pound and take your pick from a dozen wonderful dogs waiting for the welcoming home most of them have never known.

No Bad Dogs

Our book today is "No Bad Dogs" by Barbara Woodhouse, a bestseller from the early '80s that puts us in mind of the great Renaissance painter who sent home apprentice after frustrated apprentice because, when they asked his advice on how to paint, he'd spend three days creating a little masterpiece in front of them and then say, "Do that."

Some people have a 'knack' with dogs. We've all seen it: dogs act differently around these people, show an almost immediate acceptance of them while still being wary around all others. Dogs have not been forthcoming on the reason for this; it's the single way in which they are inscrutable (although it almost certainly has its ultimate roots in smell, as does virtually everything else in their world).

This 'knack' very probably derives from a lack of fear. Almost all human beings retain just enough contact with their prehistoric cell-memories to feel just the slightest hitch of fear, just the slightest internal pause, when confronted with even the most benign of dogs. This is on one level understandable, since dogs - even in their current profusion of eugenically engineered shapes and sizes - are quite obviously predators (cat people will talk your ear off about how cats are still 'feral,' but nevertheless, cats all bear the most important genetic modification of all: they're all small). Their muzzles are full of teeth - both fangs and great grinders - their bodies are covered in quite visible muscle, and they display every day the vastly superior span of their senses, senses fitted for hunting.

It stands to reason, then, that dogs - even those most pathetically beset by overbred domesticity - would retain the essential hunter's ability to sense fear. In the wild, after all, fear engenders mistakes, and mistakes are invaluable to a hunter: the antelope whose fear prompts it to separate from the herd is the antelope who merits the pack's attention. Even attenuated by generations of interbreeding, that instinct lives in every dog.

People with a 'knack' for dogs have either never had that essential tic of fear or have unlearned it through a lifetime of dogs liking them, obeying them. In any case, they approach dogs differently from the vast majority of mankind, and this is a singular joy for them.

Unless of course they decide to write a dog-training book. A book in which they inevitably end up saying, "Do that" to people who can't possibly do so.

Barbara Woodhouse had a 'knack' with dogs. We here at Stevereads had the pleasure of meeting her, during a book-tour of hers in the mid-'80s. She was a proper, earthy, thatcherite British lady, sure of herself to an extent ungiven to unlanded peoples, and it was clear at once: she had an amazing connection with dogs. They loved her on sight, saw her instinctively as pack-mother, and wanted nothing more than to do what she requested, no matter what.

The 'no matter what' here encompasses a great deal, since if asked Mrs. Woodhouse would sum up her success in dog-training with one word: choke-chains.

Mrs. Woodhouse never met a dog-problem a choke-chain wouldn't help. Oh, not the small-link choke-chains, she quickly assures her readers, no: the large-link versions, which 'cause the dog no discomfort.' Only sayable by someone who's never had one around their own neck.

In truth, as we here at Stevereads can report, choke-chains of any diameter pinch like holy Hell. They are no different whatsoever from today's more popular electronic 'bark collars': in both cases, well-meaning young dog owners have spent their money on a device of torture.

Let's get this straight, for definition's sake: an implement of torture is any device that enables someone to compel another person's behavior or compliance by physically coercive means.

The lady likes choke-chains. She likes them just as our current nine-days-wonder Cesar Milan likes kicking dogs onto their backs and kneeling on them. In both cases, an individual with a genuine knack for dealing with dogs refuses to simply say that and instead push a product, an approach, as the secret of their success.

For Mrs. Woodhouse, the secret is the choke-chain, wide-linked and used with great discretion, mainly to startle the dog into knowing you mean business. In example after example, she's given a problem dog by the dog's owners, applies her choke chain approach and achieves nearly instantaneous results, much to the wonderment of her human clients.

Reading these stories now, thirty years and thirty fads later, it's clear what's happening in them: the dogs, frightened, stubborn, and disoriented, meet Mrs. Woodhouse, almost instantly attune to her (in her books, she refers to this as 'telepathy'), do what she's asking because it's suddenly important to them to do so, get the blissful reward of her thanks, and then get returned to their still-clueless owners. They get the same ill-behaved dog they started with, and Mrs. Woodhouse gets another statistic to pad her success-rate.

The ironic thing, of course, is that her books - especially "No Bad Dogs" -make it clear that she deeply, personally loves dogs (not a claim we'd say is really tenable with Cesar Milan). And not only does she love them, she revels in her connection with them, clearly sensing on some level that this connection is extremely rare:

"I find the chattering that goes on in class by those people who don't concentrate very hampering to this mind communication. It is like constant interference on the radio. But then I don't suppose many people know what a thrill it is to be on the same wavelength as a dog."

This is simply put and undoubtedly true. It isn't a particularly exalted wavelength, it must be admitted - it's mostly about poop and food and endless, endless sleeping, but shot through it all is a talent for affection so strong and pure it puts almost every other species on Earth to shame, and it IS thrilling when you feel it instead of only guessing at it.

That Mrs. Woodhouse could feel all that - that she could sense on some level how rare it is to feel all that - and still champion something as barbaric as a choke-chain is ... well, it's a serious indictment. Who knows, who can count, how many dogs over the last thirty years have been choke-chained into absolute misery because of Mrs. Woodhouse's wrongheaded teachings? We hold the suffering of every single one of them against her.

And yet, as her writings clearly show, she's one of us. Catch her when she's not talking about torture devices, and this couldn't be clearer:

"Why do hundreds of us give up our holidays to stay with them, cry our eyes out when we lose them, defend them against all those horrid people who don't love them and on our deathbeds make provisions for them in preference to our needy families? It is because there is something about a dog that gets to you. Even if you own a problem dog imbued with all the evil the devil himself invented, you still know that, inside that dog, there is something very lovable - a dog that will never criticize you, a dog that doesn't care whether you are from the top or bottom drawer, a dog that doesn't care whether you are clever or stupid, beautiful or hideous, rich or poor. He is yours and you are his."

And there's quite a bit of good old-fashioned rock-solid advice about dog ownership hidden in Mrs. Woodhouse's books, especially "No Bad Dogs." It's just the central theme we must discard, and we must discard it for the same reason we discard 'bark collars' and 'alpha male' nonsense and Cesar Milan's weird attempts to establish physical dominance over a species who could, to an individual, eviscerate him in an instant if they wished to.

It's not that there aren't biologically incorrigible dogs; there are, we've loved more than a few of them and seen them to their tragic ends. But they are not the same as the non-biologically incorrigible dogs, the willful ones, the stupid ones, the stubborn ones, the impossibly entitled ones. These dogs can be argued with, pleaded with, negotiated with ... but at the end of the day, they love us and should be given their way. Victories over the indisciplines of such dear, pigheaded creatures are paltry victories indeed; only a species as neurotic as man would seek them in the first place.

Mrs. Woodhouse's title is entirely right: there are no bad dogs. And since that's true, surely there's no need for choke-chains?