Bones Would Rain from the Sky: Deepening Our Relationships with Dogs (37 page)

view. We extend the time and patience
to explore what may be possible. We are both
willing and able to set aside our own fears,
feelings, and even needs, making room for the other's
needs and feelings to be laid out for examination and
study. When we do this, when we engage our
curiosity in a patient way and empty ourselves of
ourselves in order to fill ourselves with another's
perspective, then we are acting in a soulful way.
The connection thus achieved is not only powerful, it
can be profound in its ability to change us. The most
difficult work of empathy may be just this: truly
clearing the table of our own stuff, at least for the
moment, and not begrudging the space required for
another's stuff.
But there was nothing soulful about what I was doing, and the
only thing on the table at that moment was my stuff. With
gritted teeth and a fire of righteousness burning in
me, I unceremoniously hauled Badger to his
feet by his collar and snarled at him to get in the
crate. By way of response, Badger proved to have
far more control of his emotions than I did of mine:
He did not bite me. He grabbed me harder,
though still without really hurting me, and twisted upside
down again, my arm still in his mouth, my fingers
painfully trapped in his collar (which hurt like
hell]. For a long moment, we struggled, and all the
while I was angrily wondering why on earth I had
ever agreed to take on this brat of a dog, this
spoiled, foolish, idiotic animal, this stupid
beast. Finally freeing my fingers from his collar, I
slapped him on the muzzle. No longer thinking,
hurting, out of patience and past the point of caring, I
slapped him. Once. Hard.
With a snarl of surprise, Badger let go of my
arm and reared back, showing me all his teeth, watching
me with wary eyes. For a long heartbeat, I found
myself staring into the eyes of a very angry dog and felt the
heat of my own anger-I was no longer cold as I
had been only moments before when I stood watching
dogs pee in the frost-glazed yard. Suddenly
aware of how off balance I was at the bed's edge,
I adjusted my stance, and as I did, I saw
Badger's eyes go wide. Anticipating that I
might again reach for him, he pulled back slightly.
Never taking his eyes from mine, he snapped at the
air and barked, a rising shrill bark of clear
frustration.
And then, called to myself by the

clack-clack-clack
of his deliberately impotent jaws in the void between
us, I could see again. My anger melted in a rush
of empathy, and I could see Badger again. And what
I saw was a dog whose only crime was that he
wanted to sleep beside me in a warm, soft bed; a
dog whose experience had taught him that crates meant
loneliness; a dog who believed that people would yield to a
show of teeth. I saw a dog who found himself confused
by my response and frightened by my sudden anger,
especially when he had met nothing but patience from me
up to that moment. This was not a bad dog or a
defiant dog. This was an untrained dog pushing for
what he wanted, a dog testing-as all
adolescents do-and trying to find out what the rules
were. Most of all, this was a dog defending himself, with
dignity and
in search of soulful coherence

restraint, against what I knew was a sad moment.
Though I pride myself on how far I've come from the
harsh past, my grasp on what it is to be humane
and fair proved too tenuous to allow me to swing
safely past that dark moment when a dog's teeth
gnashed in the predawn silence.
All the fight drained out of me. I
apologized to Badger, who heard my apology with
wary watchfulness, and then I headed downstairs
to regroup in the kitchen, where I asked each dog
to sit and rewarded them with a small treat. I
quietly snapped a leash onto Badger's collar
before handing him his treat, relieved to see that he did
not flinch or draw back from my hand but wagged his
tail and looked trustingly into my face as I
smiled down at him. And then we made our way
back upstairs. With a bit of beef jerky, a little
careful but nonthreatening maneuvering and judicious
use of the leash I was able to get Badger to enter the
crate without much fuss. (i think that much like me,
Badger was shocked and surprised by our nasty
encounter. Given an opportunity to avoid another
confrontation with someone who had proven herself possibly
quite aggressive, he was all too glad to get
into his crate.) I lay down with a heavy heart and
turned to face Badger in his crate as other dogs
settled themselves beside me in their accustomed ways. In
the faint light that held the promise of the coming day,
Badger's eyes gleamed steadily, watching me.
In the dark, I lay watching him. Thinking about our
predawn fiasco, I realized that if he had not

been wearing a collar I would have had no
option but to bring my full attention, creativity and
respect to asking Badger to kennel up. There would have
been nothing unusual about this. John and I
routinely move the cattle on the farm not by force or
even halters, but by creating an invitation, by opening a
place where willing partnership can exist. Badger's
collar had been left on ostensibly as an aid in
guiding him through the complexities of the new rules he
needed to learn, a strange justification when we
regularly handle animals that weigh half a ton
or more without such aids. Instead, the collar proved
to be a crutch. Hand in collar, I had been
tempted to force Badger instead of seeking his
cooperation. Hand in his collar, the sleep-deprived,
irritable, cold and selfish me could justify using
more compulsion when Badger did precisely what I
knew he would do in response to being forced-fight
back, threaten. How foolish and unfair of me
to approach him in a way
that I knew he would resist, and then feel justified
in punishing him for that resistance.
When I woke up a few hours later, I took
his collar off. This was both a profoundly symbolic
gesture and a heartfelt promise. None of my
dogs wear a collar at home since the
setup of the house and farm makes collar and leash
unnecessary except for walks in town or while
traveling. In our home, dogs wearing collars are
easily identified as guests or temporary
members of the group. In the simple act of removing
his collar, I made Badger a family member,
not a conditional guest. I also made a promise
to Badger and myself to honor our relationship and
to build it one moment at a time.
I am deeply grateful for Badger's forgiveness,
though I know that in our relationship, he has good
cause to be glad of my forgiveness as well.
Badger is not a perfect dog, which is a good thing,
because I am not a perfect person. Each of us
forgets at times to listen to the other. Each of us gets
lost in our own view of the world; each insists and
resists in silly, prideful ways. But we
don't go very far down the path in those dark woods before
we turn back. He keeps me honest. Arriving
with his own baggage and knee-jerk responses, he
helps me sort through my own. Not as fortunate as the
dogs who were born here and thus grew up never knowing
the need to threaten in order to be heard, Badger
reminds me of the power of simply listening and really

hearing another being. In his expanding trust and
joy, he offers a poignant reminder of how much
relief can be offered when we hear the faintest trace
of confusion or anxiety in a loved one's
communication. The traces of where a collar once
sat on his neck can no longer be seen in his fur.
He wears a collar happily now, for it means
rides in the car or a trip to training class or
an adventure, not a way to bind him against his will or
bind him to mine. What binds us, this beautiful dark
dog and I, cannot be seen. This bond we have forged is
what the Little Prince spoke of: "What is
essential is invisible to the eye and can only be seen
rightly with the heart."
dangerous obedience
While cooking dinner one night, John and I were
discussing the many
positive changes in Badger's behavior,
especially a noticeable reduction in Badger's
tendency to use his teeth to communicate. We talked
about the likelihood that in another home, this
behavior might not have been understood as just that-a
communication-and the unhappy and unnecessary end Badger
might have faced as an "aggressive" dog.
I mentioned how much restraint Badger had shown even
when I slapped him, and I wondered with admiration for
his considerable control how far he'd have to be pushed before
he really did bite. I also said how guilty I
felt for having lost my temper. John's
response rocked me back on my heels.
"Well, he didn't leave you much choice, did
he?"
Oh, how easy it would have been to step into the offered
sympathy and soothe my conscience with the notion that
Badger had somehow been the one to force me to get
angry. But I knew that Badger didn't start the
battle of the bedroom. Badger wasn't interested in
fighting with me. He just wanted to do what felt
good-sprawl out in bed-and avoid what he did not like,
which was being confined in a crate. Had I crawled
into bed beside him, he would have been thrilled, snuggled
up next to me and drifted off to happy dreams, just
as he often does these days with his handsome head draped
over my shoulder. I was the one who let slip the
dogs of war with my response to Badger's understandable
desire to be in bed. Though it was a good idea and a
reasonable request to have him nap safely in a
crate, how I set about making that happen was anything

but a good idea. Although Badger told me
again and again and then again how unfair I was being, I
refused to hear him. I was the one who didn't leave
him much choice. The blame was mine alone. Badger
was just being a dog with limited options in the face of
conflict.
Instead of maintaining a loving awareness of Badger's
limited response to conflict
(chompl]
and doing what was necessary to help him work this through calmly
and as gently as possible, I stubbornly focused
on how cold and tired I was. I didn't think
of how painlessly I could solve the whole problem with a
leash and a few treats-I only thought of how much I
did not want to bother going downstairs again. And my
selfish, emotional motivation for slapping my dog
made this a more terrible cruelty than a calm,
unemotional "correction" delivered by a trainer who
believed with all her heart that she was acting
appropriately and fairly. As willful
cruelty does, this brief moment did more damage
to my soul than all the countless moments where I acted
far more forcefully but without any misunderstanding of how
wrong my actions were. When I raised my hand in
anger to Badger, I knew better, and I did it
anyway.
Right there, chopping the onions, talking with someone who
understood how maddening it can be to make the time to work through
another being's issues and problems, I could have
easily reconstructed the situation in my head and
justified all of my actions as reasonable, characterized
Badger as the stubborn dog and even excused
slapping him as an unfortunate inevitability. It
scared me, how easily cruelty could creep in
uninvited and end up wearing the Great Seal of
Justification. It horrified me that even my own
husband would not question me, the professional trainer, if
I announced that I had no choice but to slap a
dog. The only safegaurd against the cruelty I
am capable of is my willingness to constantly question my
own motivations and actions. But I have known this for a
long, long time. The responsibility for being
humane lies strictly within our own hearts; we
cannot and should not depend on external authorities
to guide us.
Like some readers, I have another responsibility far

beyond my personal relationships with my
animals. As a professional to whom others turn
for advice and guidance, I need to recognize the
power that I am granted in my role as "the trainer"
(often spoken in quasi-reverent tones by those who are
having trouble reconciling the bouncing Buck at their
feet with the well-behaved dog who resides, at
least for the moment, solely in their imagination). I
need merely say, "I am a dog trainer," and with that
statement, I claim for myself whatever degree of
expertise a dog owner might attribute to that
title. If I want to drape myself in more
authority, I might call myself a "behavior
consultant" or "dog psychologist" or
"behaviorist." (it should be noted that there are no
licensing or certification regulations for dog
trainers in any state as of this writing. In sharp
contrast, I could not cut someone's hair or do their
nails without a license, at least in my state.
Caveat emptor indeed when obtaining the services
of a trainer, behavior consultant or
behaviorist.) Whatever I choose to call myself, the
moment I step forward to offer advice- whether or not
it is good advice, whether or not I am paid for
giving it-I have wrapped myself in the cloak of
authority. Sought and claimed or not, that
authority is powerful and needs to be handled with care.

because I said So
There are quite a few old jokes that include someone-a
child, a husband, whoever-asking semidefiantly "Why
should I?" in response to some direction from an
authority figure or evidently more powerful
person. And the punch line, inevitably, is this:
"Because I said so, that's why." And we all laugh,
knowing that the would-be defiance evaporates and the
instructed meekly goes ahead and does as told.
In such jokes, we evidence an understanding of how
deeply obedience to authority is ingrained in us.
Defying authority is not something that we do easily.
After all, the very coherence of society actually
depends on the individual's obedience to authority,
whether that's the red light at the corner or a federal
regulation. But there is also a dark and disturbing side
to how far this obedience can be taken.
Psychologist Stanley Milgram devised an
experiment to test "how far a person will proceed in a
concrete and measurable situation in which he is ordered
to inflict increasing pain on a protesting
victim.8The experiment consisted of a "teacher" (the