THE OTHER END OF THE LEASH

There’s been a lot of hugging lately, from dear friends expressing love and sympathy after Lassie’s death. And oh, a good hug feels so good, doesn’t it? Thinking of it reminds me of how very differently dogs and people express affection and care, and how hugging is so hard-wired in humans, but not natural to dogs. This photo, that I can’t attribute to any source but has been all over the internet, is a perfect example of the primate propensity to hug (and a dog’s typical reaction).

I must have 50 images of people hugging dogs in which the person is beaming with happiness and the dog is looking uncomfortable. Of course, there are plenty of exceptions, but they are more rare than I suspect most people realize. (After all, we can’t see a dog’s face when we hug him, now can we?) I do know lots of dogs, Willie included, that love lots of body contact with people they know and trust, but not with strangers. Which is not that different from us after all — how would you feel if some guy you’d never met threw his arms around you on the street?

But what IS different is that dogs don’t make “ventral/ventral” contact (chest to chest, belly to belly) like primates do when they are nursing, and thus don’t develop a positive association between ventral/ventral contact and feeling nurtured and loved. But we could help that. What if every puppy class included instructions on how to condition your pup to accept or even enjoy hugging, because people ARE going to do it. (Sigh: I JUST finished the new version of Puppy Primer and didn’t think to include that. Ah well, next time.)

I’m curious: How many dogs out there would rather not be hugged? What’s your experience? (And have you gone out of your way to look at your dog’s face when s/he is being hugged?)

Meanwhile, back at the farm: What can I say? We’re still in that raw place in which you feel like you’ve had surgery without an anesthetic. There’s lots I’d like to write about grieving after a dog’s death, but not now, not yet. But I can say thank you from Jim and me for the outpouring of support. Oh my, it means so much. And I have read and cherished every one of the Six Words you have written. Gorgeous.

Willie had a hard time. When Lassie died (unexpectedly, shockingly) I cried so hard that I scared him. It took him 24 hours to stop tongue flicking. Now he is so clingy he hid behind my legs throughout a dog romp Sunday afternoon. However, he also ran like a greyhound with a young BC who he loves just a few minute before, so he’s doing well some of the time. I suspect on the dog romp that it was the pack of dogs, and all the activity, that made him nervous. He’s never been in a group of dogs before without Lassie. The two of them never interacted in any visible way when on dog romps, and so I was surprised that he seemed so different. In hind sight, it makes sense, but then, hind sight is always 20/20. However, he did come out of his shell around the other dogs once I got out a stick, and he now, finally, will again eat food out of his Kong in the morning. Day by day.

Here’s a photo I took this morning of the remaining hay in the hay mow, sunlight streaming through from the east. I love old barns, and am so lucky to have one. This one collapsed right after I bought the farm in 1982, but we brought it back to life (several times actually.)

Lassie went home today.

I am thinking of the famous story about Hemingway, in which he challenged his writer friends to write the shortest story possible. All agreed that he won. Here’s what he wrote:

For Sale. Baby Shoes. Never Worn.

Since then, summarizing one’s life in six words has become something of a parlor game. I have done so for Lassie, summarizing what she means to me in six words, and I think it would bring pleasure and comfort to everyone who reads this blog if you were inspired to do the same for your own special dog, and to share them, if you would, for us all to read.

Here’s for my Lassie:

French Vanilla. Ice Cream. Summer Day.

Off you go dear Lassie, my god how I loved you.

With apologies for the change in topics, I just have to respond to a comment on my last post, and to the hundreds of comments I’ve heard over the last 20 + years, about the guilt associated with putting a dog down. It is always wrenching, heart-breaking to euthanize a beloved dog, but taking a dog’s life away for a behavioral problem can be especially hard. I can’t take away the pain, no matter what the reason for the death, but here are a few things that I have found that have helped me and some of my clients.

First, for anyone who has had to euthanize a dog, I hope it helps to know that devoted owners are often wracked with guilt, no matter why the dog died. For example, I euthanized Cool Hand Luke after a long battle with kidney failure. By the time he died (he was close to death when we helped him along), I had worked extensively with five veterinarians, including specialists at the UW Vet School. He received the best that money can buy of western medicine, homeopathic medicine and chinese medicine. I cooked him a special diet every day and monitored every thing that went into his mouth. I’d go on, but you get the idea: I moved  heaven and earth for Luke, and still. . . I was wracked with guilt for a good year after his death.

Surely I had missed something? Surely there was just one more thing I could have done? One of my vets told me that Luke had an inflammation somewhere, but she couldn’t say where or what it was. I obsessed over trying to find it, and felt a crush of failure when nothing we did turned around his failing kidneys. I was consumed by the idea that IF I JUST WORK HARD ENOUGH, I could “fix” things and save Luke.

After he died, devastated by his untimely death (he was 12,  his daughter is now 15 3/4), I couldn’t get it out of my mind that somehow I should have done a better job of trying to save him.  In the cold light of day, this was, frankly, absurd. Luke had 5 of some of the best vets in the country and if they couldn’t save him, how in heaven’s name was I supposed to?

But as he always had, Luke left me with a gift. It took awhile, but I slowly began to notice how EVERYONE I talked to who loved their dog, like we all love ours, was guilty about something related to the dog’s death. It didn’t matter how or why they died: hundreds of owners, from prof’l trainers and behaviorists to the dog loving public, found something to feel guilty about. “I should have seen the symptoms sooner,” or “How could I have not known that the lock on the door was faulty and allowed my dog to run out the door?” or “Surely I could somehow have prevented the bite if I just hadn’t……”

Here’s what Luke taught me, along with the wise comments of a psychologist friend: It is easier to believe that we are always responsible (”if only I had done/not done this one thing….”) than it is to accept this painful truth: We are not in control of the world. Stuff happens. Bad stuff. As brilliant and responsible and hard working and control-freaky that we are, sometimes, bad stuff just happens. Good people die when they shouldn’t. Gorgeous dogs brimming with health, except for that tumor or those crappy kidneys, die long before their time. Dogs who are otherwise healthy but are a severe health risk to others end up being put down. It’s not fair, it’s not right, and it hurts like hell. But please please, if you’ve moved heaven and earth to save a dog and haven’t been able to… just remember:  Stuff happens. We can’t control everything. (Difficult words to dog trainers I know. . . Aren’t we all control freaks to some extent?) You didn’t fail. You tried as hard as you could. It’s okay.

To all of us: Try folding up that guilt and pain like a pile of dirty, ripped clothing, and throwing it away. Remember: Much of what we love about dogs is that they live in the present and accept what happens. That’s our job, to accept what happens sometimes, even though it’s the hardest job of all.

Secondly, there’s one more thing I want to remind everyone who has lost a beloved dog, no matter what the reason or whether there was guilt attached or not: Neurobiologist Jaak Panskepp tells us that “social distress,” or what we’d call grieving, is registered in a primitive part of the brain that is also associated with the perception of pain. I learned about this while I was writing For the Love of a Dog, and it blew me away when I discovered it. Ah Ha, I thought; no wonder we talk about the “pain of loss” and “healing” after grieving. And don’t we respond to another’s loss as if they’d been physically hurt? We take people flowers and food when they are grieving just as we do after they have a major operation.  I remember feeling physical pain when Luke died, when Tulip died, when Pippy Tay died, just as I did when my mother died. I told someone it felt like I’d had abdominal surgery. Turns out that’s exactly what my brain thought too.

And so, remember that when you lose a dog, or if you are still grieving for one you lost in the past, your body thinks you’ve been injured. It needs you to take care of yourself. It needs rest and comfort and flowers and sweet soup and gentle kisses and hugs.

As I write this, I think of my Lassie girl. Her 16th birthday party is planned for a few months from now. She’s doing amazingly well, but good grief, she’s old. Really old. It hurts to think of the future… I think tonight I’d better make some chicken soup and put it in the freezer.

Meanwhile, back at the farm: Lassie played tug with Willie this morning, oblivious as she is to calendars or human concerns about the future or the past. Willie got lots of sheep work this weekend, is a bit gimpy on his left shoulder but lordy we had fun. It’s fall in full force here: leaves turning cranberry, frost on the grass in the morning, lots of wild apples falling from the trees. Here are 2 photos from this morning, while feeding apples to some of the sheep.

Here’s Barbie impatiently waiting for me to drop apples into the feeder:

This isn’t the greatest photo in the world, but I wanted to show Martha chomping on an apple. Sheep LOVE apples, and right now Martha, Barbie and the lambs are all eating grass (from the front yard, best grass on the farm, courtesy of Will who can reliably keep them herded away from the road), a corn/oat mix, high quality alfalfa hay and lots of apples. Yum.

xx

I took Will to a friend’s to work him on different sheep in a new environment. I’m getting to the point where he and I don’t have too much more we can do at home. My small flock is so tame that Will has to be within a few feet of them to move them, unless I split out a few and force them away from the main flock. Then they are flightier (and more challenging), and I’ll do that more and more, but don’t like to stress the ewes and lambs too much when the lambs are young. Either way, it’s still the same sheep in the same place, and Will needs to learn how to work lots of different types of sheep in different places. (So do I!) We are used to working in first gear, when most sheep work in done in 4th.

I wish I could show you a video of how he did. We were at a gorgeous farm where Will has never worked, and three things happened that made me so happy I could have carried him home myself, all thirty miles.

1) I sent him on a long outrun, two to three times as far as he’s ever gone (perhaps 250 yards? I’m guessing). He did a perfect outrun, and I don’t have the words for what it feels like to watch your dog get smaller and smaller as he runs away from you, curving out at just the right time to go around the flock and not disturb them until he gets to the back. As I think about it, I should  NOT qualify it as a “perfect” outrun, because no one was holding the sheep in place, and they were moving long before he got there and were close to the edge of the field. So, was his ‘lift’ perfect? (That’s when the dog gets around to ‘twelve o’clock’ and first makes contact with the sheep.) I can’t say, because the sheep were moving long before he got there (not because he was too close), he got them stopped once he got around them, he turned on balance and brought them straight to me. We’ve never worked on such a huge field and it makes my heart full to work in a place that open and free.

2) He’s got his flanking whistles down. Down pat. What’a boy, I’m so pleased. Here’s a synopsis of the process:

a) We work on his flank whistles for 2+ weeks, looks like he has them nailed.

b) Week three everything falls apart, I realize that once I thought he “had” them I tested him by asking him to change directions a lot. I begin to suspect he thought that both whistles meant “change direction.”

c) For 2 sessions, I go back to the first steps, having him run around and around, clockwise or counter clockwise as I repeat his whistle over and over, using the movement of the sheep and visual signals to keep Willie moving. I tested him a few times in a different context, and it seemed he wasn’t making any progress on which whistle meant what.

d) The next time we worked I send him on an outrun and he runs around to twelve o’clock and keeps going. And going and going. He runs an entire 360 degrees around the sheep, ignoring my signals to stop. It takes me a second outrun to realize he had interpreted Step C not as whistle training, but as training to run in mindless circles around the sheep.

e) After realizing this, I sat down and laugh out loud in the wet grass and asked Willie for a kiss. Willie obliged, then peed on a bush, then looked for sheep poop to eat.

f) I stop using his flank whistles for a few days (used verbal), then gradually added them in on occasion, no longer having ‘flank whistle training sessions,’ just using them when I know he wants to go that way anyway. Gradually I start asking for them when he’d prefer the other direction, and with very few corrections (a verbal no), Willie starts getting them right.

g) I take him to Peg’s (where Redford is) and he gets his flank whistles about 19/20 times.

h) Willie not only took his flank whistles every single time at our last outing, he listen beautifully, even at 200 yards. Bless him.

3) Willie came to me as a puppy pathologically afraid of other dogs but was great in the field with a guard Pyrenees (more on Willie and other dogs in other posts, and probably and eventually a book.) We’ve worked on it for three years, and he’s been improving leaps and bounds. My friend’s sheep were guarded by a working Great Pyrenees, described as a “big galoof” who loves all dogs, but still, I was thrilled that Will and he had two perfectly reasonable greeting encounters. At one point Will would have run away in terror, at another he would’ve attacked. This time Will briefly greeted him before going to work the sheep, and then left my side the instant I said “that’ll do” after working sheep and ran to sniff the other dog some more. I won’t say there wasn’t a bit of tension there, but nothing serious and easy to manage. Just being able to have Will around unfamiliar dogs is a joy, especially a big, guarding male.  More to come on that score, as I said, but back to herding for a moment:

Mind you, Wilie and I couldn’t score well in a trial now if our life depended on it. He behaves completely differently if anyone, anyone at all is watching (I know, I know, is it me, or is it Willie?) and he is easily intimidated by sheep. He’ll lose contact with them, take the pressure off when he shouldn’t, get rattled if there’s any stress and if he is confused, but lordy he’s trying incredibly hard and I love him to pieces. And me? Oh dear. I have no ability at the moment to work fast moving sheep… I simply can’t make decisions fast enough to get flighty sheep to stay on a perfect straight line on a drive, but then, I’m trying hard, too. Willie seems to forgive me for it, or at least, he can’t talk and tell me what he thinks…

Lassie terrifies Trisha: Yesterday morning I woke up mildly surprised. In five minutes I was in terror. It was 6:15, and Lassie always, always ALWAYS wakes me up between 5 am (sigh) and 5:45 because she has to go outside to pee. In general, I haven’t set an alarm since we stopped taping Calling All Pets over a year ago (when I had to get up at 4:30 on Wednesdays). But now, it’s 6:15 and Lassie is sound asleep. No worries, I pad over to her doggy bed and gently touch her shoulder. “Lassie,” I say quietly, because she often startles when awoken because her hearing is so bad. Nothing. Lassie is soft and warm, but immobile.  “Lassie” I say, and press with my hand a little harder, shaking her shoulder back and forth. Nothing, and no sign of her chest rising and falling either. This time I push forcefully into her, saying LASSIE now with real fear in my voice. I’m so loud and clearly scared that Jim peeks over the bed, worried himself. Nothing. Not a twitch.

It’s amazing the thoughts that run through your head when you’re in crisis. I remember, very clearly, thinking that “she must have died recently, because she’s still warm and there’s no rigor mortis” and “how sweet that she died in her sleep and presumably didn’t suffer.” These were cognitive thoughts, generated by my cortex, when my amygdala and hippocampus was screaming OH MY GOD LASSIE IS DEAD. I remember the thoughts and the emotions of terror and panic as being parallel, but completely separate from one another.

The panicked part of me shook Lassie one more time, this time shaking her hard and yelling her name with pure terror in my voice, and as I did she slowly raised her head and licked my face. I burst into tears and sobbed like a child, kissing her muzzle and saying her name over and over again. This morning she woke us up around 5:30, and at first I thought, “Oh Lassie, just a few more minutes!” and then…. was overwhelmed with gratitude that she’s there to wake us up at all.

Meanwhile, back at the farm, during the sweetest spring weekend you can imagine. Here is a picture of the yard that Jim took yesterday:

In this next picture, I love the different postures of Will and Sushi: Will is chewing on his Sunday bone, Sushi is practicing her “lion on the hunt” look.

And here’s why Sushi is now stuck inside for the next few days: This baby robin flew/fell out of the nest on top of the porch light this morning, along with two others. There are also Chipping Sparrows in the bush by the living room window, wrens nesting in the exhaust vent from the bathroom (which no longer works, although for years when you turned on the bathroom fan you’d  hear cheep cheep cheep cheep… now it doesen’t work at all and I’ve just given it away to the wrens), a PeeWee nesting on top of a down spout by the porch and barn swallows nesting in the garage. [added note 6/10: an alert reader suggested it was not a PeeWee and she was absolutely correct! I watched carefully the next day and saw the typical tail flick of the Phoebee and heard their typical song. A PeeWee is nesting close by because I hear it often, but not on the house.} That’s four nests attached to the house…. and all with babies about to fledge. Sorry, Sushi!

As promised, I’m going to write soon about helping dogs with Thunder Phobia (and the very interesting issue of reinforcing fear and/or the behavior that expresses it) , but I couldn’t resist posting a few photos from this morning.

Here’s Mr. Will, front and center as usual, as I try to take a photo of the tulips that are blooming over Tulip’s grave. I named Tulip, in part, after the white tulips I planted in honor of my first Great Pyrenees Bo Peep. We buried Tulip with the hundreds of fresh tulips her admirers had spontaneously brought to a celebration of her life a few hours before we put her down.

Tulip the dog may have been all white, but her spirit was a rainbow of colors. The flowers are planted over  her grave, in the place that she spent so many hours, chewing on bones, surveying the countryside and barking at coyotes as they howled across the road. I’ve waited all winter in hopes the tulips would bloom, being at risk as they were from squirrels, mice and voles who love tulip bulbs like Tulip loved chicken. I surrounded and over planted them with bulbs that wild animals don’t like so much, like daffodils, scilla and hyacinth, and crossed my paws.  I can’t tell you what it felt like this morning to sit beside them, a joyful reminder that life goes on, and that our beloved friends never really die–at least not in our hearts.

I started teaching my University of Wisconsin course yesterday, titled “The Biology and Philosophy of Human/Animal Relationships.” It is, granted, a lot of work, but I love doing it. I love the intellectual stimulation it creates, and I love working with 150 smart, motivated young people with minds like steel traps (okay, most of them) who are hungry to learn how to relate their education with the day-to-day issues of life.  We’ll be talking tomorrow about “humans and animals.” Or, is it “humans, and other animals?” What really makes us different from the rest of the animal world, and what makes us the same?

I love thinking about those questions, and I love how dogs are always reminding me that while we humans are special… different in so many ways than all the other animals on earth, we are also so very much the same. It makes me feel connected to the rest of nature. I like thinking of myself as an animal, but historically many people have been uncomfortable with that linkage. One of my favorite quotes is from the wife of the Bishop of Worcester, who, upon reading The Descent of Man by Charles Darwin said something like; “Oh dear, I do hope it isn’t true (that we are related to apes). But if it is true, I hope it doesn’t become generally known.” Too funny, too British (I can say that, me mum was British).

What about you? Are you put off by someone saying “humans and other animals?” Do you like thinking of your connection to your dog, as another mammal, or do you feel like that demeans you as a person?

No new photos from the farm today, but forgive me some nostalgia. Here’s a photo of me and my late Great Pyrenees, Tulip. She died last February, but for some reason I’ve been missing her terribly these last few days. Maybe it’s the lambs, and knowing that she’s not there to protect them anymore …

I’m on way to Bethesda MD to speak at NIH at a forum about the Human-Animal Bond, I’ll write about the other speaker’s talks when I get back later in the week. The talks promise to be very, very interesting. But today I wanted to alert those of you who are interested in animal behavior and animal cognition in general to a new book that has just come out: Alex and Me. It is written by Irene Pepperberg, and is about her relationship with the African Grey Parrot, Alex. Alex is the internationally famous parrot who Dr. Pepperberg taught to use words, not just to describe objects or actions, but to label concepts, like bigger or different. Many had argued that non-human animals were unable, cognitively, to understand something as abstract as a concept (you can’t pick up a “bigger,” now can you?). Alex, Irene and a host of helpers were able to show that Alex’s tiny ‘bird brain’ was more than capable of understanding abstractions, and of using words to communicate thoughts, emotions and intentions. One of my favorite comments from Alex was to a trainer who was clearly becoming impatient with him. “GO AWAY” he finally said to her, seemingly as exasperated with her as she was of him. (To say that Alex held strong opinions is to delve into the land of Understatement.)

Full disclosure here: Irene is a friend of mine, so I can’t pretend to be totally objective about the book. I haven’t even read it yet (just got it), but I know much of the story, including how hard Irene had to battle to have her work taken seriously and to get funding to continue what I think is one of the most important research projects in animal behavior of the last few decades. I can report that the book, as of this morning, is #79 on Amazon, which means it is selling fantastically well. I’m not surprised (though very pleased!)—Alex was perhaps one of the most famous animals of the past few decades, and his death resulted in articles in the NY Times, the Washington Post and papers around the world. Irene told me that after his surprising and untimely death she struggled terribly . . . the press called incessantly for interviews, which was complimentary, but terribly hard for someone who had just lost one of their best friends.

If you are interested in animal cognition and what goes on in the brains of non-human animals, I’d pick up this book. I’ll write more after I’ve gotten back and read it… sounds like perfect Thanksgiving holiday reading to me!

On the home front, it’s deer hunting season in Wisconsin now, which means that walks in the woods are limited to areas that you are 110% are safe. Even then, we all wore blaze orange on Sunday when we went for a walk, thought you’d enjoy seeing Jim, Will and Lassie all tricked out in their classy orange duds. The other photo is from this morning, the first ‘real’ snow besides the dusting we had last week. Not much, about an inch or so, and a far cry from last year’s 9 or 12 inch snow falls that started in mid November and didn’t let up til spring.

I am fascinated by your posts about differences in training with male and female dogs (or not.) I’ll keep reading, and in a few weeks I’ll summarize what you’ve all said on another post. But just to add to the fire, I want to ask another question about male and female dogs, but this time about the sex of your “forever” dog.

Here’s the question: If you have, or have ever had, a one-in-a-million dog, a dog who who you think of as our soul mate or your “forever dog,” was he or she the same sex as you, or the opposite? Again, I’m not saying nothing til I hear from you.

A related question is: do you think you have a different social relationship with same sex and different sex dogs? Does sex have any role in how you feel about dogs? I will tell you some thoughts of mine about this one: It feels, in some vague, difficult to articulate way, that I relate to my male dogs slightly differently than I do to my females. Perhaps it is all cultural projections, but my forever dog, Cool Hand Luke, was without question a “guy” in my mind. He is the dog, after all, that I said “.. by the next day, Luke and I had fallen in love…”. Don’t get me wrong, I have loved some of my female dogs so much it hurts. Right now, my Lassie will be turning 15 in a few weeks and my love for her makes my heart so tender I can feel it swelling as I write. But she is very much a “girl” in my mind… So, what do you think? Is this all foolish anthropomorphism?

On the home front (the freezing cold home front, it was 14 degrees this morning), I’ve been baby sitting Harriet, a poor old girl who was surrendered to the local shelter, determined to have both Oral Squamous Cell Carcinoma and kidney failure, and eventually ended up in the care of a 4th year vet student, Jenna Bueley, who is probably the dearest and most amazingly caring person alive when it comes to old, sick dogs. She’s the one who helped take such incredible care of Tulip in her last year of life. Jenna had to leave on an externship, so Harriet came to live at the farm for a few days. It’s a bit cold in the farm house, so we brought out the blankets…..

It’s a wonderful thing to hold a book you wrote in your hand, long after the writing and the editing and the discussions with the publishers about cover photos and who to ask for quotes on the back… My new book, Tales of Two Species: Loving and Living with Dogs just came from the printers, and I have to admit it feels good to see it. It’s a collection of essays written over the years for Bark magazine, published by Dogwise (who I call the Amazon of dog books). Working with the editors of Bark has been a joy, and collaborating with the folks at Dogwise has been equally delightful (I presume you are not shocked to learn that this is not always the case between author and publisher? I have been exceptionally lucky with my national books, having wonderful editors at Ballantine who have become dear friends. However, I have heard lots of nightmare stories from other authors. . . (no I’m not telling!)

Here’s a couple of excerpts from the book:

From the essay “Canis Cousins? Unraveling ancestral ties” in the section on Genetics, Ethology and Behavior:

“Dogs aren’t wolves, pure and simple. Except, uh, they are. Sort of. Sometimes. Lest you think I’ve lost my mind, I’d like to explain why the statements “dogs are wolves” and “dogs aren’t wolves” are equallycorrect. I’m writing about this issue because it’s inherently a confusing one, and if we really want to understand our dogs, it’s important to get it right.”

From the essay “A Peaceful Walk in the Park: Strategies for defusing tense encounters while walking a dog-reactive dog:”

“It’s okay!” she waves, her two Golden Retrievers racing toward your dog like cheerful, caramel-colored tsunamis. “My dogs LOVE other dogs,” she gushes, while your mouth goes dry and your heart stops, then resumes pounding so hard you think it might thump out of your chest. It doesn’t matter if the approaching dogs love other dogs–not if your dog barks and lunges every time she sees something with four feet. It’s YOUR dog who is the problem, and there you are, trying to be responsible, keeping your dog leashed and under control, while those around you let their dogs run free and turn yourrelaxing walk into a stress test.”

And finally, from an essay titled “Rites of Passage: Navigating the loss of a beloved dog.”

“Tulip was as beautiful in death as she was in life. Her long white fur covered her thin old body like a fluffy blanket. Her eyes were peacefully closed, and she looked as though she might wake up at anymoment and plunk her huge white head in my lap for petting. Tulip died at the admirable age of 12 years, 10 months, a legendary length of life for a Great Pyrenees. But this is not an essay about Tulip, although like many of our dogs, she deserves an entire Library of Congress written about her. Rather, it’san essay about coping with the death of our beloved dogs, and specifically, about how best to cope in the hours right after they die.”

[and how can I resist a photo of Tulip when she was still alive, taken by Amanda Jones?]

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The book is a “curl up n the couch with your dog” kind of book, so I guess it’s release at the onset of winter is well timed. At least, it’s definitely November here in Wisconsin… look at the difference between the pictures of the Japanese Maple in front of the farm house a month ago compared to now…. ah, the greys of November. Tomorrow the high is supposed to be 34, with high winds and sleety rain. This does not bode well for the planned “clean out the barn” day tomorrow, which includes scrubbing the cement barn floor with bleach after all the old straw and manure is hauled out by a bobcat (not the living breathing kind) and two strong neighbor boys (and okay, me and Jim). Wish us luck!

I’m off in an hour to Virginia to do the For the Love of a Dog seminar on Saturday (about emotions in people and dogs) and a half day version of Both Ends of the Leash (focusing on how OUR behavior influences that of our dogs). Both seminars are fulfilling to do, I love doing them both. Spending a day on emotions—the basis of our bond with dogs if you think about it—is always wonderful for me. Every time I give the seminar I learn something new, and every time I end the day overwhelmed at the miracle of our relationship with a entirely different species. Think about it: two very different species with individuals who will risk their life for a member of the other species. That’s amazing, truly amazing.

On Sunday we’ll become field ethologists observing the always interesting behavior of people and dogs, focusing on communication. What signal does your dog respond to when you say “sit?” It well might not be the word… do you move your head? move your arms? Does your dog even notice the word, if he’s busy watching your body? And when you do talk, how do you use your voice? Can you use it like a singer, and make your voice model what you want your dog to do or feel? We practice in the seminar (okay, it gets a little noisy when everyone practices at once!) and leave even more conscious of how our voice and our movements are always ‘talking’ to our dogs, whether we know it or not!

I’ve gotta run, but here’s the words that end Saturday’s seminar, after a discussion of why we love dogs so much. It’s a testament to my soul mate dog, Luke, taken from the end of the book, For the Love of a Dog.

There’s a stone I had made for Luke at the top of the hill road, where the pasture opens wide and the setting sun highlights the words carved into its face. “That’ll do, Luke, that’ll do.” The words are said to working dogs all over the world when the chores are done and the flock is settled: “That’ll do dog, come home now, your work is done.” Luke’s work is done too. He took my heart and ran with it, and he’s running still, fast and strong, a piece of my heart bound up with his, forever.

Here’s me and Lassie up the hill, in a beautiful photo taken by Amanda Jones.