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.

Mud, Bugs & Squatters

June was hot and wet, fourteen inches emptied from the rain gauge last month, an additional three inches this week. Our Dry Lot, “a designated, area without grass, used to protect the pastures from overgrazing while providing space for horses to exercise and socialize in a mud-free environment” has not been dry since December.

When you live in the lowlands, mud management is mandatory, so we’re making our way through the mire, glad for dry day and drain tile.

Now relieved of all riding duties, Chicago is, for the first time in our 23 years together, barefoot. We’re watching for any issues with his soft soles that may show the need for summer shoes, but with the spongy ground and his life of doing nearly nothing, he currently enjoys the literal feel or the ground beneath his feet.

Poor Moe is the 2025 bug magnet, his empty eye socket an open invitation for flying insect inhabitation. The vets assure me I will do no damage, but it’s with the gentlest of touch that I swab out the discharge with a couple wet cotton balls. He stands quietly for the cleaning and accepts the almost-always-on fly mask, removed only during his afternoon snack and snooze in the stall.

Moe’s fly spray tolerance is improving. He’ll now stand still for application to the front end and part of the hind legs. As long as it’s an aerosol can. And we’re in his stall. And I’m restricting his movement by holding him by his fly mask, halter or lead rope. Pony steps maybe, but steps nonetheless.

Along with summer storms, June ushered in a relaxed Ruffian, considerably calmed since assuming the role of Solitary Dog, engaging in watered-down renderings of his rough housing and rug tousling only when his cousin, little lab Remi, comes to visit.

His boisterous behavior has settled at a level Remi finds reasonable, so she’s now willing to play with the formerly raucous Ruff and during a recent weekend stay, introduced him to the joy of cooling off in swamp puddles. Specifically, the mucky pool of marsh water in the front woods, an area Ruffian had not previously ventured into but to which he has since returned several times.

Remi is a petite, short-coated black lab who dries quickly. Ruff is a galootish, long-coated golden retriever who does not.

Mixed with the mud of Four Sticks is that of the county parks through which Ruffian and I continue to ramble. Some have more high ground and dry terrain than others, so “we” choose our daily destination based on recent meteorological conditions.

I spend a fair amount of time with my Swiffers®, wet and dry.

Of course, Ruff’s not afraid of no stinkin’ mud, but he is a bit of a fair-weather walker who heats up much faster than he cools down, so he casts his vote for whichever trail routes us most quickly back to the shade, with minimal mosquitoes and deer flies. It’s the bugs’ busy season, but I’ve found repellants that keep Ruffian and me on their Unacceptable Donor lists.

Fennel fares best of all the beasts around here in the summer, his paws clean, the rest of him free of insect bites, but he does bear the burden of sharing his space with a variety of comers and goers, which he gracefully endures.

After I fended off their protracted campaign to claim the light fixture in Moe’s stall as their nesting spot, the swallows successfully launched a stealthy operation to build on the railing above the sliding door between the barn and the shelter. I don’t know for certain if the mass of mud and feathers holds any nestlings, but have temporarily ceded the territory, just in case.

The adults hang tight to the barn, paying no mind to most of us, but swoop down, hissing and clicking menacingly at the little ginger cat, should he have the audacity to stroll out the big door.

Even the shelter of his barn cannot be called Fennel’s own, as there is a buff and white cat, first noticed on the property last July, who makes frequent appearances.

I’ve spotted him in the driveway, on the hitching post, in the cushioned chair on the porch, in the cushioned chair on the flatbed trailer, in the soffit above the hay stall, in the soffit above the hay loft, in the corner of the hay loft, and at the top of the ladder of the hay loft, just behind Fennel, when I climbed up to toss the last of the 2024 bales over the rail. As I stepped on the floor of the loft, he quietly retreated to the back pallet, monitored my movements, then strolled back to his original position when I headed down the ladder.

A couple weeks ago, he’d slept through his alarm and was still in the shop when Fennel and I went in for breakfast.

Fennel’s fuzzed-out hesitation alerted me to the presence of a foreign body, so I left the divider door open and went in the barn to distribute morning hay.

Sure enough, I was standing next to Moe, setting out the first flakes for his perusal when the new guy scurried for the exit. Low to the ground, laser focused on his only way out, he paused when he saw me but picked up the pace when I stood still and verbally assured him his safe passage.

He used to run when I got close – closer than expected though, so I suspect he’s learned to do the math required to determine the limits of his safe zone. But lately he’s allowed me to get within a few feet, and I talk to him when I see him (ever the trendsetter, I was predicted to be a “crazy cat lady” by a coworker many, many years ago, before the concept was a thing) letting him know he’s welcome to stary as long as he doesn’t hurt the little orange scaredy cat who already lives here.

His response to my chatter is direct eye contact and calm confidence. No fear or movement, no conversation or debate.

He may or may not be a neighbor’s pet. He may or may not be a friend of Fennel. I once heard them conferring behind me, a couple quiet hisses, but no growling. I suspect they were merely ironing out the details of their agreement.

They seem to have an understanding of harmonious cohabitation, so he’s welcome to stay.

Until he meets Ruffian, at which time the contract may require re-negotiation.

Forward, Forward, Forward

During my many riding lessons with Chicago, an often-repeated directive from the Man With the Patience To Be My Instructor was “Forward, Forward, Forward.” Nine years since my last lesson I still hear his voice urging us to move onward with confident energy, even when I’m not riding and especially now as the new year unfolds with its changes, challenges and choices.

My 2025 intention is to make it a book and barn year – a return to the peace-keeping pastimes that help me navigate the nastiness of the noise and remember the serenity of the silence.

To that end, I just finished the first novel I’ve read in many months, and I’m facilitating a few interspecies interventions down in the barn so I can spend more quiet time in the company of all my favorite four-leggeds.

We successfully survived the inaugural occurrence of the Four Sticks Farm Freestyle Equine-Canine mixer, a spontaneous event that occurred last weekend after snow shoveling but before lunch chores, when I decided to clean up the shelter while Chicago, Moe, Rowdy and Ruffian were all in attendance, unhaltered and unleashed. They were unrestrained and maybe I was unhinged, but it seemed like time to move onward with confident energy.

I hoped.

Chicago and Moe have developed a system of determining the “Best if eaten by” date for their hay, only it’s measured in hours. They sort through the flakes, select the choice pieces and stems, then scatter the sizable remainder across the length of the shelter, where it will be trod upon, pooped over, and occasionally peed on, by a certain one-eyed Walking Horse.

However, if I rake up the remnants, load them in the wheelbarrow and slip/slide my way out to the pasture, they will eventually make their way to the scrap pile and finish the forage.

Usually, I get this done while they’re in their stalls enjoying their lunchtime snack-and-snooze. I move the spurned but still-good hay, sweep the shelter and put a couple small fresh flakes on a clean surface for their dining pleasure.

They have trained me well.

But on Saturday, I had a little unscheduled time, the goldens were relatively relaxed from an hour of running and rutting through snow piles, and the horses were serenely snuffling around the backside of the barn. It seemed the god of opportunity had presented an opening to run the experiment of testing the group’s ability to play nicely when allowed total access to the same playground – a free-for-all that could end in either disaster or delight, but I opted to give it go.

Forward, forward, forward.

Moe only pinned his ears and snaked his head at the dogs a couple times, Chicago only once lowered his head with a slight snort, Rowdy only made a single semi-move toward Moe before recognizing just how badly that might end, and sweet, slow-processing Ruffian only offered 3 or 4 play bows with 3 or 4 demanding barks, then realized none of the others wanted to join in any retriever games.

So, he switched to single-player mode and galloped giant, gleeful figure-8’s through the pasture, under the barn rope, around the barn aisle, up and off the bales stacked in the hay stall.

Chicago, Moe and Rowdy stood by the barn door, uninterested and unimpressed as Ruff ran maniacal loops with joyful abandon, eventually skidding to a stop with his tongue lolling out the side of his goofy golden grin.

No animals were harmed in the process, and we made a little progress toward peace.

Forward, forward, forward.

In a crazy figure-8ish sort of way.

Fall Ahead

We survived the super sultry stormy spell of summer, recently rescued by a stretch of sunny 70’s. Tank tops have given way to short-sleeved tees, and flannel shirts will follow soon.

We’re in the seasonal sweet spot between stinging bugs and sticking burrs on the wooded trails, neither sweaty spine nor frozen feet at the end of our walks.

The pasture puddles finally dried up, so last night I allowed the dogs to go down to the barn yesterday, and within minutes Ruffian found himself a suitably greasy pile of horse manure in which to relish a roll.

Rowdy was due for his annual Back to School bath, so while he sulked in the tub, Ruff skulked to the other side of the tack room and laid low.

He lucked out, as it was late, and after wrestling with Rowdy, who has no appreciation for spa services – manis, pedis, shampoos or, worst of all, blow outs – I mustered only enough energy for a sponge bath of the greenest spots on his face and head.

I’ve figured out that Ruff’s coat has a self-cleaning quality and with a little air drying and light brushing, he freshens up surprisingly well, which has dialed down the despair of watching him trot over to display his happy dappled self after a romp in the pasture.

So, we returned to the house, all three of us damp and covered in dog hair; and Rowdy woke up this morning with some serious bed head. Clean and fluffy, but waves rippling and curls flipping every which way but straight.

And it mattered not to him, nor the girls at school, that his coat was a bit disheveled – Study Hall Monitors don’t need no stinkin’ hair stylists.

Chicago and Moe now have unrestricted access to the pasture (though interestingly, they continue to come up to the barn for a flake or two of morning and evening hay) until we close it completely for a couple weeks of rest – part of the annual Winter Preparedness Plan.

Mighty Moe has figured out a method for popping the electric rope out of the post clips so he can step over it and enjoy his own private paddock whenever the mood strikes; and since I’ve been spoiled by Chicago, who could be contained with kite string, “Fence Upgrade” has been bumped to the top of my Seasonal To Do list.

Morning chores and night checks are now done in the dark – a true tell of this time of transition.

Grazing schedules, sleeve lengths, sunlight. Lots of things are changing.

But not the green-spotted golden.

Ruffian Review

It’s been a year since Ruffian joined our pack, fifty-eight pounds of cream-colored cheer with a puzzle of a past. Twelve months of pawprints moving in a (mostly) positive direction.

The shaved patches of infected skin have healed, now covered with coat that floats in wispy clouds across the hardwood of our home, and he’s bulked up a bit, tipping the big scale in the vet clinic waiting room at just under seventy pounds.

He’s still got an affinity for paper towels, napkins, and cash register receipts, leather coasters, gloves and golf shoes, slippers from the closet, dirty laundry from the hamper, and clean socks from the dryer. And, despite 12 inches of surgical staple scar across his belly, throw rugs.

But he now relinquishes the riches with reduced resistance, especially if encouraged to bring the treasures to me so he can show off his great find.

He still wrestles with his memory foam bed, but more for energy disengagement than for enemy domination.
He pees on the daylilies, the hostas and the shavings in the stalls, but never in the house.

He still barks at the cats sitting on the sidewalk, but no longer at the horses walking in the barn.

He’ll squeeze through an open stall door to snack on Chicago’s grain but waits at the barn door while I empty the manure bucket in the bin on the other side of the driveway.

He’s earned supervised access to the free world of Four Sticks, where he runs giant figure-8’s around the mound, across the driveway, between the trees and behind the house, a gleeful lope through the yard, sometimes sideswiping the ground with his left hip when he loses control in the turn.

Down the straight-a-ways he flings his legs full-length with joyful abandon and a curiously consistent preference for the right lead, just like his big red barn brother.

He discovered the deer in the back of the pasture and developed a passion for their pursuit, but miraculously returns to the sound of my blaze orange plastic whistle for the promise of a few soft and chewy beef treats.

He relishes a good roll in the greasy piles of fresh horse manures but… The positive spin on this one is still a work in progress.

Last fall we completed a Beginner Obedience class, which is to say we attended four of the five sessions for which he was willing to get out of the truck, but with all the dogs and all the training classes I’ve done, I don’t remember feeling less successful, and that includes Dixie the crabby lab and Boone, the laggardly greyhound. Week 5 was better than Week 1, but barely.

But this summer we completed a Therapy Dog training class, for which I had to only tap the corner of his crate to coax him out of the truck. And once inside the building, he showed potential. Still needs a little polishing, but definitely a little diamond in the Ruff.

He’s settled in, chilled out, grown up, slowed down, emptied our checking account and filled our hearts.

It’s been a pretty good year.

Road Signs for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Class Final Night
Last night of class
We’ll go and then
We’ll pass our test
Just don’t know when

Senses Census

Glue sticks and spiral notebooks now occupy the prime retail real estate, and rumor has it Halloween displays are already claiming their share of shelf space, so it seems fair to say we’re midway through the summer, a season rivaled only by Christmas for sensory stimulation.

We had a house painting project happening around here in June, which meant no flowers on the porch or deck, but the garden center conveniently located 4.5 miles due East, and on my way to almost everywhere, seemed to hold a sale of some sort every time I drove by.

Being the civic-minded sort, I stopped in to support the local economy, which explains the excessive pinks, yellows, and purples of the too-many annuals placed around the yard in my temporary holding zones.

Economic assistance. That’s Lisa Logic. I love it, George has learned to live with it.

Painting completed, the plants were moved to their more permanent locations on the deck and after a brief tutorial, Ruffian learned that they are for decorative purposes only, and not, actually, for his dining pleasure.

New this year are some cheerful zinnias and showy cosmos, through which I feel my grandma Maxine, who planted them along the cedar fence in her backyard. When I look at those flowers, I see teenage me sitting with her on the concrete patio that connected her two-bedroom rambler and the detached garage.

I smell the smoke of her PallMall red, taste the real sugar of my icy Coca Cola in a glass bottle, and I hear Herb Carneal calling play by play for our Minnesota Twins as jets cruise across the flight path overhead, approaching and departing Minneapolis St Paul International.

Fortunately, Mother Nature has generously supplied the waterworks this summer, leaving me, the generally neglectful gardener, in a mostly supporting role; and I’ve come to appreciate my watering routine – the grounding of my bare feet on the warmed wood of the deck planks, the cathartic calm of deadheading spent blossoms, and the affable acceptance of a hummingbird’s impatient whirring around my head as he waits for me to move away from his Cuphea café, the new pollinator hot spot at Four Sticks Farm.

The best view from my deck includes Chicago and Moe, sporting shiny summer coats, both spotted with white dots befitting their heritages.

It’s a Pasture Palooza kind of summer, so they’re enjoying as much green freshness as they can manage with swishing tails, twitching ears, and an afternoon break to doze beneath the draft of their stall fans while the bugs are blown away.

The seasonal barn bouquet is one of warm horse and hay and citronella insect spray, but the tack room, unless I remember to run the dehumidifier, retains the faint but foul smell of a stray brown tabby who, many years ago, spent the night as an uninvited visitor. Fortunately, he found more accommodating accommodations elsewhere, so his was a single night stay, but he left a mark.

To minimize the muddy paws and stinging insects of our so-far warm and wet summer, Rowdy, Ruff and I are mostly walking at a park with a paved trail that winds past a target shooting range, through the woods, next to a radio-controlled airplane landing strip, along the Mississippi River, and around a disc-golf course.

The trail takes us across a sunny stretch of wild-flowered prairie grasses before leading into a shady pine forest, where we meet walkers, runners, cyclists, hoverboarders, skateboarders, inline skaters and frisbee golfers.

We hear the staccato pops of target shooters, and the droning whines of miniature flying machines, the thwack of golf discs hitting trees and the metallic ting of golf discs hitting chain-link baskets.

If our schedules have been synchronized, we also hear the threatening vocalizations of a pair of tiny dachshunds asking my golden punks if they feel lucky.

And if we really are lucky, we hear the nearly silent thump of a deer paw landing on soft soil when it leaps through the trees ahead of us.

It’s been a bunch of beautiful days in this neighborhood. Even when the humidity hits the high notes, when I feel that single drop of sweat sliding down my spine, there is respite in the slightest breeze or spot of shade.

The air around the house smells of pink verbena, damp soil, mowed grass, and some wildflower that I’ve yet to ferret out.

I wake up Every morning and fall asleep Every night serenaded by house wren who sings incessantly, staking his claim and looking for love. All. Day. Long.

I look at a world of wildlife.

And cats and dogs and horses.

And flowers.

Fifty percent off.

Road Sign for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Class Week 3
Obedience night
He did pretty well
The lessons, it seems
Are starting to gel.

Road Signs for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Class Week 4
He ignored the distractions
That were placed on the floor
I had hope when we started
And now I have more.

Midsummer Musings

Moe is learning it maybe will pay
To be calm and stand still and to stay.
The bugs are so bad
He no longer gets mad
When it’s aerosol, not a pump spray.

Chicago, unlike his friend Moe
Lets me spritz him from forelock to toe.
Goodbye to the bugs
From me he gets hugs
My old pony, I just love him so.

The swallows are back for round two
I’d rather they not, but they do
When the barn door is open
They fly in just hopin’
This time they can stay, I won’t shoo.

The cats don’t seem bothered by heat
Though I question their choice of first seat
They spend most of the day
In the loft with the hay
Coming down once or twice just to eat.

Ruff’s allowed in the barn during chores
Cleans up grain that’s been dropped on the floors
Then unless I watch close
He’ll go roll in the gross
Unperturbed by my shouts and my swores.

Rowdy’s great, just an all-around champ
Edging close to his Senior Dog stamp
Still got plenty of pluck
But to exit the truck
Doesn’t jump, now he trots down a ramp.

It’s a beautiful time of the year
To sit out on the deck with a beer
Watch this place and these pets
Know no better it gets
Raise a glass, nod of thanks, give a cheer.

Road Sign for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Class Week 2
I opened his crate
He hung in the back
I convinced him to join me
He did really great

Dog Days of December

Postscript to “Relationship Rehabs”: about the time that post was published, Ruffian was annihilating the bed pictured in the middle photo at the end of the entry. That was number 3, so the Destroyer of Dog Beds has since been enrolled in the FSF Dog Bed Behavior Modification program.

I bought a replica of Rowdy’s orthopedic memory foam cushion, which is the only bed Ruff hasn’t tried to demolish, and three weeks in, under strict supervision, the only damage done is removal of the manufacturer’s tag, even under penalty of law. Scofflaw.

Thanks to our exceptionally mild weather, we’ve been able to enjoy some unusually easy winter walking, so have also been able to maintain our daily hiking routine, and Ruffian seems more at ease in the woods.

Sudden stops are minimal now, less about safety and surveillance, more about snuffling of scat. The trails are littered with the leavings of woodland creatures who’ve passed before us, and the irresistible intrigue of scratch-n-sniff secrets allows ample opportunity to practice our “Leave It”.

But enforcement of the instruction still requires a gentle tug of encouragement, resulting in 60 pounds of semi-cooperation sling-shotting from two feet behind me to three feet in front, requiring me to channel my inner yogi and “activate my core” to counterbalance, keep my shoulder in the socket and my feet on the forest floor.

Fortunately, Rowdy’s excrement explorations rarely require more than a 10 second verbal “wrap it up” warning, setting the stage for Ruff’s eventual acquiescence, as majority rules and the majority are movin’ on.

Speaking of stages, the Happy Hooligan recently made his theatrical debut, playing the part of Max in our little school production of “The Grinch”.

His character spent the entirety of the play in the cave on Mount Crumpit, constructed of two bookcases cleverly disguised with cardboard, so years of yoga came in handy as I spent 20 minutes in Hero Pose, crouched behind Rowdy and next to The Grinch, who, fortunately for all involved, weighs in at a pint-sized 90 pounds.

In preparation for the role, Rowdy learned to speak and bow on cue, neither of which he actually executed during the performance, but the students still adore him, and having seen the skills during rehearsal, they continue to bombard him with requests for the behaviors during Study Hall, so he’s barking and bowing on a regular basis between the hours of 9:45 and 11:15.

Despite some industrial strength vigilance, Ruffian breeched security and helped himself to a snack of fabric wrapping ribbon, which his intestines did not find festive. He’s purged (fingers crossed) most of it in the dog yard, and puked some putrid puddles on the hardwood floors, the scent of which now permeates the house. Nothin’ says Home for the Holidays like a dog in digestive distress, and there are not enough pine boughs or gingerbread houses to clear this air.

He appears to be on the road to recovery so I’m cautiously optimistic that he’ll follow the same path to survival as the steel-stomached retrievers of my past, especially after a trip to meet his new best friends at the vet clinic, where we spent a lot of money for a little information, a few x-rays, a bunch of barium and a passel of peace of mind.

But even with the dismantled dog beds, substandard stage performances, and gummed up gastrointestinal tracts, like the Who’s down in Whoville we’re enjoying the spirit of the holidays – the colored lights, the Christmas cocktails, the chocolate-dipped ginger snaps, the extra efforts to connect with favorite people and share food, laughter, memories and plans.

It is still a beautiful world.

Halloween

Two barn cats, but neither is black
Prowl around but are easy to track
They spend much of the day
Hiding out in the hay
But will always appear for a snack.

Ruff and Rowdy will work for a treat
Ask reward and then rinse and repeat
There’s no need to get ghoulish
When Ruffian acts foolish
He’s still learning, and really quite sweet.

He’s not brave so Chicago can’t boast
Many fears does this handsome horse host
He’s a little bit spooky
And can get kind of kooky
When he sees what he’s sure is a ghost.

Halloween brings no cause for alarm
An eerie sort of holiday charm
Scary sounds in the dark
Owls hoot and dogs bark
But peace surrounds us at Four Sticks Farm.

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.