Yo, where's my treat?

Dogs don't generalize. That's one of the first things I was told about dogs, and what I've come to realize is that it doesn't mean dogs can't generalize, because they actually can and will; but rather that dogs are literalists, and when they learn it is through very specific imprints. For instance, I taught my dog to "go to his place," a mat in the corner of the kitchen. The theory was that he'd learn that success (treats) came only through sitting in his place, rather than getting his nose into my business. Basic operant conditioning, and pretty effective. In a way. Two things happened. It started to rain nonstop, and to battle the muddy pawprints all over the house we threw a couple towels down on the floor around the kitchen. Laszlo generalized: suddenly, going to his place meant sitting down on the first available towel instead of the mat. The other thing that happened is that by creating the expectation of a treat, I also created inevitable frustration. True to the neurotic overachiever Doberman heritage that is Laszlo's, when the lightbulb went on over his head, he really got on the mat. Within a couple days I pretty much couldn't enter the kitchen without the dog rushing past me to get on the mat and directing an unwavering, laser-beam stare at me. Where's my treat? The next development: the sound of barking echoing from the kitchen while I'm working in another part of the house. I go to see what's up: Laszlo on the mat, lying down as he'd been taught. Barking. Where's my TREAT!? Laszlo, like his owner, doesn't deal with frustration gracefully: he barks and digs maniacally at the floor and tries to destroy the mat. Great.

So I mull this over and decide to stay the course, but try to make it look more like what I learned on the ranch. Here's one thing I keep forgetting: the food isn't just a reward, which is really the key to timing, in particular. The food is the means by which you engage the dog's drive, not just to elicit a behavior but to get the dog to feel a certain way while performing that behavior. In this case, the goal is that the dog feels that feeling patient--i.e., doing nothing--is what makes the food materialize. It's a really subtle difference, but in this case important. I tried a little harder to make that emotional connection. Instead of tossing treats at Laszlo from across the room, I channeled my teachers and became more fluid. One thing I've observed about the really good dog trainers in my life: there's an important physical presence; they move like magicians, mesmerizing the dog, who often gets a sleepy, dopey look and becomes totally magnetized: "learning with the puppy mind," I think Kevin called it. I stopped giving the commands; I concentrated on paying more attention to the minute details, "zinging" the food right into the dog's face the moment he shifted his weight back into "waiting" mode. Success didn't come from the action of sitting on the mat and expecting; it came from the feeling of settling. Success as a trainer came not from dispensing treats robotically, but from learning to play the theremin of the dog's field of desire (OK, a really arcane metaphor, but go look up theremin playing on YouTube and you'll see what I mean).

I took to practicing this while my husband and I ate breakfast at the table right next to the mat, a scenario which historically has often resulted in Laszlo being banished so we could finish our meal in peace. And, despite the voices of dog trainers screaming in my head, "you're going to create the worst monster that ever lived!" it actually seems to be working. I hung in there through a lot of obnoxious behavior, a lot of big dog snout in my lap, and kept guiding him back to the mat. And now it kind of seems like Laszlo hangs out on the mat, generally without barking or digging. Often looking positively peaceful. At one point my husband and I looked at each other and said, "You do realize we're training him not to beg at the table by feeding him at the table." For some reason, we both really loved that idea. But I think that's actually what's happening.

Besides the fact that I am overly analytical and need to be more present in the physical world, if there is a conclusion to be drawn from this anecdote, any tidbit of advice for other folks trying to get inside the doggie mind, it's this: nothing you do is necessarily, in and of itself, right or wrong. That should be a relief. OK, I know, we all can talk about all those ways you can mess up your dog. We will all make mistakes. My point is that once you are (1) open to really feeling what is going on with your dog and (2) non-judgemental about your dog's desires, that is all you need to guide you. In other words, it's not about this technique over that technique, or this piece of gear over the other one. (This, of course is assuming you act with good intention. Obviously if you set out to be cruel to your dog, that is wrong. Duh.) Apropos to that, there is no trainer out there who can "fix" your dog with some set of esoteric secret techniques. There's nothing wrong with having some tricks up your sleeve, but what really matters is understanding how they work. In fact, I'm tempted to dedicate an entire post to the enumeration of every little trick I've ever learned from every trainer I've ever encountered, not because I want to scoop all the dog trainers (some of my best friends are dog trainers) but in order to de-glamorize the tricks so we can all get to the heart of the matter. The magic is in your grasp of the dog's emotional state, and it's really about loving the desire in your dog that is currently powering the inappropriate behavior you hate--because that's the same steam that's also going to power the good behavior you love. The same drive. So, love the drive. Don't squash it, don't mess it up. Think of it as sacred, really, because it's the spark that unites our two species, that makes it possible for us to have our unparalleled connection.