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.