Obedience 2

Two-thirds of the way through our first run at Obedience 2 and we’re holding our own. But our classmates are two 6ish-month old puppies, one a lively labrador, the other a chickenhearted chihuahua, which makes my 3 year-old galoot of a golden the freakishly tall kid in the back row of the kindergarten class picture.

Ruffian is the instructor’s choice for demonstration dog when introducing a new skill, only because the little lab loses any semblance of self-control when Kelly approaches – his tail begins beating the floor as soon as she looks his way – and the chihuahua is, well, a chihuahua.

Ruff’s attention span is growing and his restraint in the company of his canine contemporaries is improving on a weekly basis. He’s an enigma though, compared to every other golden I’ve worked with, because his treat drive can be tepid.

I’ve invested in the expensive freeze dried turkey hearts and bison parts that he deems a fair wage, and amassed a small arsenal of discreet attention-getters – clicks, clucks, hisses, whistles, subtle finger pokes to his meaty thighs, gentle finger pats on his sometimes-meaty head, and my high-pitched happy voice – to refocus his focus on me and the task at hand.

Still, he and sweet lab Winston would drop the gloves and enjoy a raucous retriever rumble if we’d just let loose the leashes.

And he’d welcome the opportunity to pursue Wonton, sitting on his owner’s lap to our right, as I’m fairly sure Ruffian considers the tiny trembler small prey animal.

He is making progress though, and would be, paws-down, top dog of the trio if we practiced, even a little, every day. But the gods of Everything Else in Your Life and the demons of Put That One Off ‘Til Tomorrow are leading the pack this summer, while Ruff and I take the tortoise route.

With the exception of Boone the brindle greyhound, who was granted dispensation from most obedience skills due to his gentle nature, good manners and inherent respect for house rules, (other than the one that requested he sleep on any of his 3 designated dog beds and not the king-size with the pillowy comforter) Ruffian is undisputably the slowest of all my dogs to master the simple art of getting into Heel position.

To add to his mental muddle, last week we introduced “Side,” which is heel position on my right, and I could see the brain cell activation spark, though full ignition will take a few more strikes of the flint.

He’s got a solid Sit, Down and Stay. Most of the time.

Loose-leash heeling looks good until something, or someone, shows up in front of us. Or to the side. Or behind.
His willingness to leave the comfort of his crate continues to be inconsistent, based on location, ambient sound and/or whatever goes through the mind of a trusting soul once abandoned in an isolated wildlife refuge, but the reluctance recedes with a couple taps to the corner of the crate, which convince him to stand up, peek out, and confirm the safety of exiting the vehicle.

His grasp of the basic principles of generally accepted canine conduct, along with the lack of a requirement for polished execution of competition-ready obedience exercises helped us pass the Therapy Dog evaluation on our first attempt, albeit with a performance that was not pretty and fortuitously aided by a benevolent evaluator and a bit of Irish luck.

So, we’ll continue our education to sharpen our skills to get through our 2-year renewal assessment with a lot less stress and a couple less prayers.

Oh, and for fun.

He is not a dumb dog, but he does think differently and therefore, so must I. Solving the puzzle of Ruffian’s processing is definitely a journey; on a road less traveled, full of S-curves, forks and roundabouts.

Obedience 3 begins in August, and I am wearing my walking shoes.

Progress

Ruffian and I took our debut solo walk last week, heading out on the 2-mile dirt road loop across the street, and despite my doubts, it turns out he is (mostly) willing and able to leave home without Rowdy.

He looked back once or twice, but I never gave him time to consider the distance growing between him and home. Cheerful encouragement and enthusiastic curiosity kept us moving along with no hint of the dreaded Ruffian refusal. No stopping, stiff legged, frozen in his tracks, engaging all available senses to detect threat and decide direction.

In fact, next to Boone, the old brindle greyhound who subscribed to a deeply held belief that one ought to stop and smell the roses, the daffodils, the daisies, the dandelions and the assorted grasses that grew along the edges of the road; Ruff proved himself my most pleasant canine walking partner.

Full disclosure here – there was no perfect heel position, but neither was there insistence that he stretch to the full four feet allowed between the brass clip under his chin and the leather loop in my hand. The holy grail of loose-leash dog walking, a j-hook of slack in the leash. What a feeling!

When we crested the small hill between a frog pond and a fenced pasture and saw two trail horses with their stoking-capped riders headed our way. Ruff froze. Stock still, staring at the approaching equines like he’d never noticed the pretty palomino and the handsome sorrel paint living on the other side of the dog yard barrier in his own backyard.

We humans waved at each other as I tried to convince Ruffian that forward progress was, in fact, still possible under these circumstances. But Ruffian had entrenched himself in the I’ll wait here camp. So, implement Plan B – move his brain, then move his feet.

I asked him to sit, a word at the top of his lexicon list, and with which he is situationally conversant. A hand resting on the door handle means “please sit pal;” a treat hovering just above his nose says, “park your posterior partner” and an index finger in front of the food dish indicates “find a seat friend.”

But horseback riders on the road did not translate, so I went back to basics, getting his eyes up with one hand while tapping his rump down with the other. And it worked just as they reached us, thanking us for waiting while they walked by, and impressed by the solid sit, though their position down in the ditch prevented them from seeing that his excellently executed sit stuck us solidly in the middle of the road.

Fortunately, the gravel road travel gods held off the afternoon traffic, so we faced no Chicken Challenge by any neighborhood car, pickup or ATV; and once convinced that any danger had passed with the now-distant equines, Ruff trotted merrily all the way home.

Our little rabblerouser is learning. The Attrition through Extinction method has worked its magic, along with Ruff’s response to routine.

He’ll still occasionally go for a golf shoe or barn boot but will almost immediately lie down and move the footwear in his mouth to position for the inevitable “Give” that almost immediately follows.

He heads directly to his crate in the truck when released from the back door even though he’s endured a couple smacks to the skull when he jumps before the tailgate has reached its fully upright and locked position.

He developed a short-lived fondness for scrap paper in the recycling basket, but now backs away empty-mouthed as soon as he hears any verbal disapproval of his garbage collection venture.

Best of all, he’s started to wag his tail when we talk to him. Though he’s always been friendly – overtly, oafishly friendly – always happy to be with us, always sporting a smile in his ebony eyes and his jolly jowls, I noticed that he’d wag his tail while engaged in energetic canine games but not in quiet human conversation.

But now he does, which I take as a sign of security; that he’s learning to trust his place in our pack.

Next up – learning his place on our road.

Visitors

Once upon a weekend, two hungry tabby cats and their sleepy-eyed caretaker entered the barn shop for breakfast. Imagine their surprise at seeing the chow container on its side, the lid lying several feet to the left, the scoop sitting several feet to the right. The water bowl stood upright but nearly empty, its contents covering the surrounding floor.

Due to an unfortunate, though not necessarily uncommon, lapse of communication between the two-leggeds, the overhead door had been open all night, offering free food and lodging to any and all who might wander by.

Luckily, only one took me up on the offer, and apparently wasn’t uber-impressed, as most of the food and water were still here, just scattered and sloshed around the cat corner of the shop.

I swept up the cat chow, re-hinged the container lid, re-hung the measuring scoop, and cleaned off the floor where the mystery guest left a calling card in the form of a yellow puddle and a brown pile.

Monday morning dawned cool and cloudy, perhaps enticing our uninvited visitor to sleep in, or maybe he didn’t realize we open earlier on weekdays, but when I came in through the little door, he was scrambling to get out through the big door.

Not sure which of us was more rattled, but I do know I hit the button on the opener while he ran at least 2 laps up and down the other side of the room, separated only by the car and the exercise equipment.

Though he once again evaded apprehension, the identity of the kibble crook was clear when I caught a fleeting glimpse of his masked mug as he scampered under the weight bench, and I noticed the distinctive wet pawprints left after swishing his snack in the water bowl.

The incident remains under investigation, as I try to determine the mode of entry. It’s possible that I (and only I, this time it’s all on me) left the door partly open to let the breeze blow through the barn. I hope that proves true, because if not, it means the little raccoon has figured out the cat doors.

Yikes.

Yuck.

Stay tuned.

This is not our first raccoon adventure. We once had a family of 5 take up residence in a big maple tree in the west paddock – one of Rowdy’s favorite springs, as he spent many, many, many moments staring into the branches from the base of that tree, praying to the god of Dogs with Strong Prey Drives, hoping for just one of those babies to challenge him to chase.

They did not.

We’ve had several species stop by over the years. Some travel non-stop, others stay for an hour, a day, a season.

Deer roam through randomly, singly, in pairs, or herds of 13. Fawns run wind sprints across the pasture, arching their backs and kicking their heels, bronco-style. One summer brought an orphan fawn who spent a couple months trying to join our little gang of geldings, only to be rudely rejected by then Head Horse Rusty. The ponies did, however, allow the little one to spend much of the summer safely grazing close enough to be protected by their proximity.

Much to Mace’s amazement and amusement, a painted turtle ambled across the alley several springs ago. Its pace was painstakingly slow, but its presence was brief – just the solitary walk across the pasture to the swamp, after which we never saw it again.

One cold January day I slid the barn door open and interrupted a coyote napping in the sunny corner of the shelter – sitting up to stretch out the sleep and jog away just as Biskit and Chicago trotted out to pasture.

Ducks and geese swim in supersized spring-melt paddock puddles, stray cats strut across the yard, and sandhill cranes promenade in the pasture with their progeny. Pheasants and turkeys call from the tall grass and every once in a while, a muskrat, weasel, or one of their kin navigates across the creek that sometimes runs through the culvert.

A giant yellow garden spider graced our day lilies with her home of spun silk, complete with Charlotte-style egg sac, a wild kingdom fairy tale missing only a trip to the county fair and “Some Pig” woven in the web.

The carousel of creatures that cruise, saunter, prance, and wander through the property provides such interest and reminders of the many ways to live a life, none better or worse, just different. We’re a Live and Let Live operation here at Four Sticks Farm, and with a bit of behavior management for a certain golden retriever, all are permitted to pass through in peace.

Though we will keep the barn door closed.

Variety

Ubiquitous

“present, or seeming to be present, everywhere at the same time”

Four Sticks Farm’s Top 10 Omnipresent Elements

Dust – in the barn, in the house, in my hair
Manure – picked up, piled up, properly disposed of
Birds to feed in the backyard – house sparrows, song sparrows, and swamp sparrows, blue jays, yellowthroats and redstarts, red-winged blackbirds and black-capped chickadees, orioles, cardinals, doves and flycatchers, cedar waxwings and woodpeckers
And swallows to battle in the barn
Prints across the whole main floor – matching the tread patterns of golf shoes, tennis shoes, work boots, barn boots, and sweaty dog paws
Things To Do – housework, barn chores, dog walking, horse grooming, and cat napping, events and obligations, emails to manage, blogs to write, books to read, sudokus to solve, thoughts to think, and hgtv to fill in the gaps
Golden retriever slobber spots – upstairs, downstairs, on the walls, and under chairs
Towels – to swab slobber spots and to dry hands after washing them after swabbing slobber spots
Tubes of Gold Bond Ultimate Healing Skin Therapy® to condition hands after drying them after washing them after swabbing slobber spots
The steady serenade of a house wren on a fence post
Tranquility – see all of the above
Except the barn swallows

Unbeatable

Rowdy

Rowdyroo, Punkin Pie, Punkin, Punks, Punk, Pup, Pupster, Poopster, Pooch, TheGreatestDogInTheWholeWideWorld.

What’s in a name?

According to a couple dog trainers in our past, the answer is fate, karma, self-fulfilling prophecy. “Why would you give a dog a name like that” they asked.

Call it Cute-New-Puppy-Owner-Brain, but I counted on irony.

Seven years into the deal, we’re somewhere in the middle, the proverbial, perpetual, work in progress. Fortunately, dog training classes are my jam, so Rowdy and I enrolled in the Lifelong Learners Club. Thus far, we’ve graduated from Puppy Kindergarten, mastered Beginner Obedience, reinforced Manners, squeaked through Therapy Dog and soothed our Reactive Rover.

We’ve amassed an arsenal of equipment – buckle, pinch, martingale, limited-slip and head collars, leather leash, nylon leash, short leash, hands-free leash, slip lead, long line and a no-pull harness – each designed to fix a different flaw.

Through practice and positive reinforcement, Rowdy now readily responds to cues given in a conversational tone. Beyond the basics, he’s learned to “Listen” when we work with kids at the library, to deliver the occasional note from me to George, to differentiate Upstairs from Down when asked to deliver said note, and to distinguish between his many fleecy friends – Squeaker Man, Squeaker Bone, Big Guy, and the Squeaker Squirrel triplets – when choosing a dinner or travel companion.

He’s also grown accustomed to waiting on the landing until I get to the base of the steps, and to hang tight in the open doorway until I give him the a-ok to advance.

However, we still have work to do. With a naturally dialed-up prey drive, Rowdy loves the thrill of chasing chipmunks, corralling cats, driving deer, and herding horses, even though the objects of his obsession are, fortunately, fleeter of foot.

If I catch him early in the pre-launch countdown, Rowdy will hold an impressive sit-stay, but if not, the positive reinforcement piece settles in the dust as I shriek swear words that go unheard and unheeded by the golden flash accelerating across the pasture from 0 to 60 in .37 seconds.

The neighbors must be so impressed.

My reactive retriever has also reared his ugly head again, presenting a disconcerting display of ferocity when we meet another dog on the park trails. His aggressive vocalizations belie his genial disposition, and fortunately for my Cowardly Lion, we’ve yet to come across the canine willing to pull back the curtain to reveal the 72-pound weakling pulling those levers of alarm.

So, to return the Happy Hooligan back to his kinder, gentler self, he and I will be participating in a Reactive Dog Workshop for 3 consecutive Friday evenings in June/July – a little information about my social life – which will neither extinguish the prey drive nor cure the crazy greeting behavior but will offer insight and ideas for cultivating a little composure and more acceptable conduct.

In the meantime, we make little adjustments everywhere. We now practice a sit/stay at the end of the driveway when we are picking up the mail, and random recalls when we’re in the barn. I sport a fanny pack around my waist when we walk the trails because even the steely stare of a blue-eyed herding dog shrivels in the presence of a sliced up hot dog.

Though my GreatestDogInTheWholeWideWorld has his imperfections, and I can’t eradicate the natural instincts that are his kryptonite, I can adjust and adapt them to allow his superpowers to prevail.

And someday, someone will look at my sea of golden tranquility, my solid Citizen Canine, and remark “Why would you give a dog like that a name like Rowdy?”

Resilience.

Questions

Who told Biskit that the way to get the lead out of Lisa’s back end at feeding time is to paw at the ground incessantly, with bonus points for striking the metal barn door?

What incites Mace to arbitrarily explode into fierce, angry feline mode while sitting placidly in my lap for what seemed to be a soothing chin-scratching session?

Where did Rowdy get the idea that the best time to slurp from his water bowl and drop a trail of drooly drips across the entire main level, is just after I’ve settled into the rocking chair with a book and a beverage?

When did Fennel realize the primo path to the barn is directly in front of my feet, with abrupt, unannounced stops to complain about the walk and equally abrupt, unannounced launches from my arms after I scoop him up in an obviously unappreciated attempt at assistance?

Why does Chicago still, after 21 years at Four Sticks Farm, bolt like the proverbial bat out of Hades when snow slides off the barn roof, then stand in the safety of the open pasture, staring at the offending structure with fear and loathing until I slide open the door, allowing immediate access to the sanctuary that is his stall?

How can I be anything but amazed and amused when I wake up every morning, blessed to live on this little piece of Minnesota marshland with these charming characters? These delightful, genuine, puzzling creatures, who cultivate my curiosity with what they deem acceptable conduct, where they draw the line of expected behavior, and when they opt to do otherwise, grant me the opportunity to figure out why.

Quirks.

Kaleidoscope

We’ve rotated past the festive red of Christmas, through the New Year’s glittery golds and into January’s several shades of white. Our winter palette shifts from shimmering diamond ice on the brilliant blanket of the pristine pasture unsullied by hoofprint paths, to semi-gloss pewter patches of ice cemented in the shady spots, to the flat bone tone of plowed snow piles at the end of the driveway, dulled by road salt and sand.

Around the barn, we get a bit of cold-weather color from the green-flecked feeding spots, littered with bits of uneaten hay, and the rusty splotches that stop the heart of every first-time horse owner until they learn that it’s just a natural chemical reaction between snow and the natural equine response to a full bladder.

The trees surround the pasture with feathery, frost-covered limbs, a living palette of ivory, cotton, porcelain, and parchment.

The rhythm of my chores changes with the cold, but I still bundle up and trundle down to the barn several times a day. I channel my inner efficiency expert to get done what needs to be done before my hands get cold.

To combat Biskit and Chicago’s inclination to loiter by the water cooler under the shelter, I load my round snow saucer with flakes of hay and slide it around the pasture, scattering little piles everywhere. Much like their owner, the old ponies are easily enticed by the promise of a tasty treat and making them move around the field of food helps maintain some measure of muscle mass and keep the joint fluids fluid.

Though my barn time may be briefer, I mindfully run through a mental menu as I check in with the horses and cats to be sure they’re winter-fat and happy. Each of the once-overs includes at least a little eye contact, ear caress and easy conversation so we preserve the social connection that comes more readily during warmer weather. If I stay a little long and get a little cold, my woolly beasts are willing to share the wealth of warmth that radiates from the pleasantly plump hay bellies that function as their furnaces.

Rowdy and I keep moving too, and though our winter trails are shorter, I often come home sweaty from struggling to stay on my two feet while the Happy Hooligan trots easily over the unpacked paths. He is just as enthusiastic with winter’s snowballs on his belly as he is with summer’s insects on his ears, so my cursing is minimal, and my gratitude maximized for the ability and opportunity to stay active with such a cheerful companion.

Sunshine is a rare commodity these days, and even the few clear nights, with charcoal skies and silvery stars, generally morph into mornings of ash-colored clouds.

January is a month of mostly cloudy and the blue we miss in our sky sometimes seeps into our moods, but we manage to slog through with a little help from our friends.

We move in to chill out. We organize, downsize, sterilize, and modernize.

We realize we’re only weeks from pitchers and catchers reporting, and we fantasize about spring.

We socialize. We check in on each other to get out of our heads and off of our couches. We gather to eat and exercise, to spectate and participate, to gab and to get through this together.

The colors change, the chores change, the challenges change, but some things never change.

Kindness.

Gratitude

Those lucky to enjoy the companionship of a furry, feathered, finned, scaled, or shelled friend are, indeed, lucky enough.

November highlights the opportunity to reflect on the gifts we’ve been given, and for me, that includes the four-legged livestock with whom I share my life.

My animals get me out of my head, out of my house and into the rest of the world.

Rowdy keeps me moving, with his passion for the park, watching to see what I wear out of the closet, exploding with excitement when he sees what he interprets to be exercise apparel.

Fennel and Mace keep me still, with their appreciation of a warm lap on which to receive a quiet cuddle.

Biskit and Chicago keep me mindful of the natural world, blessing my backyard with the natural beauty of equines.

They all keep me learning, with health or behavioral issues that lead me through coaching clinics, training classes, educational seminars, veterinary consultations, Google searches, and pet care catalogs.

They soothe in the storm of stressful seas and motivate when I crave the couch.

They speak in barks, hisses, nickers, purrs, whines, whinnies, stares across the room and stares across the yard. Incredibly intense stares.

They are extraordinary listeners, exemplary secret-keepers, and conversation starters who provide smooth ice-breaker introductions and spontaneous chit-chat with people in the park.

They make me laugh and cry and think and play.

They bring me comfort, joy, a sense of responsibility, and a reason to get up in the morning – even when I want to sleep in.

They gallop, saunter, strut, trot, run and wiggle into my heart, and transform my house into a home. A dust-bunnied, paw-printed, barn-boots-in-the-back-entry home.

They keep me happy, healthy, humble human.

Grounded.

Expectations

Back in the beginning, I expected to have a barn full of four horses and a life full of equine adventures with family and friends.

Cue reality.

The herd reached three head, two old pensioners and one young buck (in every sense of the word) and we enjoyed one group ride around the neighborhood before losing old Mike, the parade horse, to the ravages of spinal arthritis and George admitted he’d rather spend his free time on a green golf course than a red horse.

So, I re-evaluated and embraced the practicality of a small herd.

No matter the number of horses though, the barn maintains an Equal Equine Expectation policy. Good manners are a must – keep your feet, your head, and everything in between, in your own space – no crowding. Stand quietly at the gate, in the crossties, and at the mounting block.

Chicago should be able to walk around our backyard trail without dumping me in the dirt at the sound of a squirrel stashing acorns under a pile of dry leaves.

Rowdy has been strongly discouraged from making a mad dash into the pasture with a squeaker ball when the horses are galloping to the back of the paddock.

Mace and Fennel, not exempt from expected barn behaviors, are tasked with getting rid of rodents, and showing up at feeding time for a cursory checkup.

My own Code of Conduct includes measures to make sure these fabulous creatures entrusted to me have safe shelter, healthy food, quality vet care, individual attention, ample opportunity to exercise their bodies and their minds, plenty of treats, and to keep the cats’ water bowl clear of Rowdy slobber.

These are my expectations, not theirs. As head of my herd, I acknowledge the 4-leggeds as beings with brains and some degree of freedom to choose their actions, so I set these standards, present them clearly, offer gentle feedback and consistent reinforcement. In the event of the inevitable infringement, I engage in a bit of evaluation and reflection.

When my toes get stepped on, my space is invaded or my path is blocked by a big equine body, it’s likely not a personal slight. I need to consider the possibility that my request for a little room had not been received. Was he ready to listen? Did I have his attention? Was I clear in my communication? Was I mumbling, as George will tell you I’m often wont to do? Was I distracted by some random thought, a song on the radio, or a rowdy golden retriever?

When I come off the saddle and end up on the ground, was I paying attention to potential perils in the environment? Did I give cues to calm my anxious partner? Was I balanced myself, in a position to stay stable?

If Rowdy races after the horses, squeaker ball in full squeal, is it possibly a lack of planning on my part (there’s a reason for that leash hanging in the barn aisle) given his natural tendency to chase moving objects?

When Fennel doesn’t show up for a day (Mace has perfect attendance) maybe he’s out patrolling the perimeter, or otherwise engaged in the business of being a barn cat. Maybe he’s up in the hayloft sleeping off a chipmunk coma, or maybe he just doesn’t want to make an appearance. Some things just can’t be legislated, especially for cats.

We’re a low-key, laid-back sort of operation here at Four Sticks, a barn of rule followers and keepers of the peace. After years of education and experience we’ve evolved into a herd where everybody fits comfortably in their place, contributes to the common cause, cuts others some slack.

Unless you give a golden a squeaker ball.

Empathy.

Ambition

With the turn of the calendar page (or for you hip, with-it types, a click, swipe, or tap the app) to September, I find hope in the knowledge that soon I’ll be sporting long sleeves and jeans, savoring the breezes that drift through the open windows with the silencing of the air conditioner, and smelling the backyard bonfires. Change is in the air.

Back to work, but not back to the old routine this fall, as I’ve been motivated to challenge myself to commit to this blog. For Real.

I like to write, but due to tendencies toward distraction, procrastination, and sloth, I’ve never put it high on the priority list and made time to do it on a regular basis. These little ramblings about the animals in my life take me a ridiculously long time to compose, correct, and complete, for the 2 people who eventually stumble upon them.

But, inspired by a little summer project, I decided to work my way through the alphabet with blog posts. 26 entries, which align perfectly to an every-other-week post for a one-year period, which appeals to my senses of order and do-ability.

The aforementioned predisposition to procrastination prompted an internal pledge to make this a 2023 project – a New Year’s Resolution. But the parallel of the ABC theme and the beginning of the school year appeals to my senses of “Meant to Be” and “Get off Your Butt and Get Going”.

With 52 weeks of regular practice, I hope to write a little better a lot faster. Maybe consistent posting will find a consistent follower or two. But even if, in the end, it’s still just me reading what I wrote, I’ll have a record of one year in the life of the animals who fill my life with joy. Simple little observations, of minimal interest to the rest of the world, but that matter to me. My pets make me get up, get out, get going. With them I laugh, learn, slow down, sweat, wonder, and worry. They make me a kinder, wiser person.

So here we go, a year of regularly scheduled programming about Fennel, the orange tabby fraidy cat with an inclination for low-level incidents and accidents; Mace, the kitten-faced, sway-backed cat who continues to catch the occasional rodent after fifteen years in the barn; Rowdy, the happy yellow dog who lives up to his name for delivery trucks in the driveway, chipmunks on the woodpile, and the words “Go” “Park” and “Barn”; Biskit, the little palomino who interprets his companion-only role to mean manners optional; and Chicago, the Big Red Beast who tolerates kids, cats and rowdy golden retrievers, but not cantering on the left lead.

Aspiration.