DogTown (9 page)

After working with Bingo very gently, Pat took him out for his first walk. When the leash slipped over Bingo’s head, he tolerated it in a passive way, like many shut-down dogs do. He did not fight the leash or invite it; he just ignored it. Unlike many dogs, who get excited at the first sign of a walk, Bingo merely seemed resigned, neither excited nor resistant. Bingo walked alongside Pat toward the door of the enclosure, never looking at Pat the entire time, even after they exited the pen and began the walk. Many shy dogs will walk behind the trainer, to keep him or her in constant view, or if they’re ahead, they’ll constantly check back to make sure the trainer is not gaining on them. But Bingo walked beside Pat, sometimes even bumping into him with his body. Although Bingo was tolerating the walk, he was not relaxed; his tail was down, his body slunk down, low to the ground, and he would occasionally startle at noises. But although Bingo didn’t seem to enjoy the walk, he didn’t hate it either, and overall did “pretty good” on his first walk, Pat said.

The second time Pat entered Bingo’s enclosure to take him for a walk, Bingo came up to the gate by himself, a sure sign of progress. Despite his resigned attitude, Bingo had enjoyed his first walk and was looking forward to another one. This was a big moment for Pat—he had found a reward for Bingo, something to help encourage new, good behaviors. So Bingo had given Pat more useful information about himself, demonstrating that he wasn’t so shut down that he couldn’t take pleasure in some things.

LIFE WITH PAT

Pat decided to take Bingo home as part of Dogtown’s foster program, which allows caregivers and volunteers to take an animal home to help him grow accustomed to living in a human household, and also to assess his progress. Pat wanted to take Bingo home for a couple of reasons. For one, he just really liked the guy. In fact, he was thinking of “just being really selfish and keeping him.” For another, Dogtown is a busy, bustling place, full of animals and people, which can be overwhelming to a dog who can tolerate only a little bit of human interaction. Pat felt he could make quicker progress with Bingo in a smaller, quieter atmosphere, where there was only one dog, Rollie, along with two cats.

On the day of the move, Bingo cowered inside his crate in the back of Pat’s truck during the short ride to his house, a double-wide trailer on the edge of Utah’s high desert. He had to be coaxed out of the truck, eventually slinking out with his tail between his legs. He was panting constantly, a sure sign of stress. Bingo was so nervous he refused to take treats from Pat’s hand. And though Rollie came bounding up and greeted Pat with a direct gaze and lots of kisses, Bingo avoided Pat’s gaze completely.

Once Pat got him inside the house, Bingo tried to bury himself under a bed or a nightstand or a chair—if he couldn’t see anyone, perhaps no one could see him. It was laughable to see this 70-pound dog with his head buried under a tiny nightstand, rump in the air, like Big Bird, thinking he couldn’t be seen.

But Bingo began to fit in to Pat’s household. He was perfectly housebroken. He also got along fine with Rollie and the cats, Bright Eyes and Buffy. Bingo wasn’t inclined to create problems in a household, at least Pat’s household, a trait that would help him when he was ready to be adopted.

Pat began taking Bingo from his home to the office every day, to expose him to two different environments—one safe and quiet, the other a bit busier and more inclined to produce the unexpected. Gradually, a bit of daylight began to shine under the lid of his box. He’d emerge from his crate with his tail wagging when it was time for a potty break. He’d spend time out in the room when Pat was gone and other people were there. But at the slightest surprise—an unfamiliar animal, a sudden sound—Bingo would bolt back to the safety of his crate.

Pat came to be able to read Bingo’s emotional states by the way he held his body. Usually he held it low to the ground, slinking along as if he were very scared, with his tail dropped, his ears down, and his neck low and extended straight out in front. But when he began to relax, there was, Pat said, “an altitude change.” Bingo’s whole body lifted up and got bigger. It was as if he allowed his body to become as big as it actually was, instead of trying to shrink it down to the size of a Chihuahua. Allowing himself to get big also meant that he was not afraid to show himself, to be seen. His ears and tail lifted—at least a little bit—and he began looking around as if he were curious about the world.

One deficit Pat noticed was that Bingo did not solicit play from another dog, and no other dog solicited play from him. Yet anyone who has spent more than 30 seconds with a happy dog knows how important such play is. One day Pat took Bingo out with another dog and encouraged them to play in a shallow pond, but Bingo just high-stepped daintily around it, not wanting to get wet and seeming to take no pleasure in any of it.

“Asking if play is important to dogs is kind of like asking if it’s important for people to enjoy themselves in their life, or if they can just exist, kind of taking care of business,” Pat said. “Play and fun are all important parts of being alive, part of making the trip enjoyable. If we get a dog that just exists, that’s just eating and sleeping, we haven’t done much for him. So it’s an important step to see when they’re starting to be able to loosen up enough to have some fun.”

Pat decided to try seeing if he could get another dog to induce Bingo to play. When a dog invites another dog to play, he will bow down low on his front paws, raise his rump in the air, and wag his tail. “It’s as if the dog is saying, ‘Whatever I’m going to do next isn’t serious, so don’t take this wrong—let’s just go have some fun,’” Pat explained. “That’s important because playing often involves a lot of behaviors like chasing, stalking, mounting, play-fighting—things that could easily be misinterpreted by the other dog if they didn’t understand this was play.” The initial bow lets everyone in on the fun.

Pat Whitacre tempts Bingo with a treat to see if this reward might motivate Bingo to overcome his shyness.

Pat took Bingo and a frisky little dog named Joey to Tara’s Run, an enclosed “playground” at Dogtown filled with obstacles—jumps, a tunnel, a seesaw. But though Joey bounced around madly, delighted to be off-leash in a world filled with fun, Bingo just seemed overwhelmed. He reverted to hiding and avoided both Pat and Joey. The experience was just too much for him; Bingo still wasn’t comfortable enough to play.

Every day, Pat continued to work with Bingo. He took him for walks at home around his neighborhood, which Bingo really seemed to enjoy, particularly the longer ones where they ventured far from the house. But even on these walks, any kind of distraction—kids on bikes, men hammering on a roof—could spook Bingo. It seemed to take very little to disrupt the fragile inner calm of his life.

But day by day, walk by walk, Bingo began to show signs of improvement. His bond with Pat grew stronger, which helped him feel safe enough to relax. When Pat had visitors to his house, Bingo would sometimes prowl around a little instead of hiding. Sometimes Bingo would come to the door when Pat came home and do a big doggy stretch, then roll over on the floor on his back. And when Bingo woke up in the morning he’d jump on the floor and roll onto his back as if he were giving himself a delicious, lingering back scratch.

These gains were small—emotional growth “on a shy-dog scale,” as Pat calls it. But, he said, “It’s always a mistake to shortchange an animal by saying that you know how far they can go. Because you just don’t know how far they can go.”

RETURN TO TARA’S RUN

As Bingo grew to trust Pat more, Pat decided to try playtime again. He wanted to go back to Tara’s Run with Bingo and bring along three other dogs, too. Instead of inviting Bingo to play, these three dogs would show him how to have fun. Pat hoped that the combination of his reassuring presence and the example of the other dogs could coax Bingo into having a good time, a sure sign of progress.

Bingo’s playmates—Rollie, Sylvie, and Sarge—were ready for fun as soon as Pat took off their leashes. When Bingo’s leash came off, he started to look for a place to hide until Pat broke out the treats. The three dogs eagerly surrounded Pat in anticipation of a snack. Bingo started to move away from the group, but then, for the first time, he stopped. Pat praised him immediately, “Good boy, Bingo. Treat, Bingo!” and handed him a morsel of chicken. Bingo, a dog who had once been so shut down that he shunned treats, accepted the reward.

Building on this first success, Pat began jogging around the playground. He knew that Bingo looked to him for security and was likely to stick close to him. As Pat jogged, he happily called to the dogs “Good job, Sarge! Here we go, Sylvie! C’mon, Rollie! Let’s go, Bingo!” The three other dogs frisked happily around Pat; at first, Bingo seemed nervous and ran ahead of the group. But as the exercise continued, Bingo began to loosen up and joined in with the rest of the dogs. As he trotted alongside Pat, his body language began to change. Slowly, his tail began to lift higher and higher. He no longer held his body low to the ground, tense and apprehensive. Now, his posture straightened and he bounced happily as he did laps around the playground. Pat began to lead Bingo over some jumps and through a tunnel, rewarding Bingo for each performance with treats and praise. And Bingo responded with a more relaxed demeanor. Pat ruled the outing a success: Bingo was having fun.

Pat knew that with time, more of Bingo’s behavior would change. He could tell that Bingo was “starting to enjoy being a dog.” He knew Bingo would frolic. He’d put his ears up and wag his tail. He’d get excited about going someplace. Little by little, the lid of Bingo’s box was lifting. The daylight of life—with all its richness and danger and delight—was flooding in.

It was impossible to say what was going on inside Bingo, but it did seem as though his life was becoming sweeter, less scary, more…joyful.

And for Pat Whitacre, that was the great reward.

I
suppose, when people examine their lives for pivotal moments or characters, by definition they find themselves looking at beginnings and endings. Armed with that perspective I really must start with A and tell the story of Atticus. After a visit to Best Friends in 2003 helped me discover a way to channel my love of animals into constructive action on their behalf, I began to volunteer at a local shelter in my hometown. I knew a thing or two about behavior, I told myself. I would help the dogs with “issues” become more adoptable.

The shelter staff seemed appreciative—or at least, polite—in their amusement. They were quick to offer suggestions of some “issues” dogs I might work with. After all, many of the more “challenging” dogs exhausted volunteers in short order. They often were left till last if they got any interaction at all, which tended to make the situation worse. Who was at the top of the list? A beautiful 80-pound German short-haired retriever named Atticus. He was fairly young, maybe three or four years old, healthy, and energetic. Atticus did not have a mean bone in his body, but anyone who went into his run or took him out for a walk emerged feeling like they had gone three rounds with Evander Holyfield. He would jump, push, pull, shove, ram, drag, wag, or otherwise abuse your body until you escaped his enthusiasm.

In truth, Atticus had many qualities that made him a good candidate for training. His friendly nature minimized any risk of aggression. His high activity level produced a lot of different behaviors that I could try to reinforce. The only real question was whether I could figure out what rewards he would respond to. As I got to know Atticus better, the answer revealed itself: Just getting to go and do things was reward enough for him.

Atticus made quite respectable progress. He began keeping his feet on the floor when I entered the run. He would sit to be leashed and wait for a signal to go through the gate. He spent less time dragging me on the leash, partly because of his training, and partly because we jogged for three miles each day to start our outing. After all, sitting in his run 23 hours a day provided little outlet for his enormous energy. Having bragged about his progress, I should mention that these improvements were largely confined to his interactions with me. He had not yet generalized his new behaviors to other people. They did not behave like me, so he assumed the old way of doing things was the way they wanted him to behave. Just because he had to put up with one person who behaved strangely was no reason to think everyone else had lost their minds at the same time.

All this so far is prologue. The important part of this story is that one winter day a man and his ten-year-old son came to the shelter to adopt a dog. This shelter always had lots of nice, easy dogs from whom to choose. So, of course, they went right to Atticus’s gate and fell in love at first sight. The staff explained his history and foibles to the gentleman as diplomatically as they could. Atticus was not considered the best choice for a family with children under 16, since adult volunteers found him overwhelming. But, as the saying goes, “the heart wants what the heart wants,” and the man and his son were not easily deterred. In keeping with the time-honored technique of dealing with an impasse by handing it off to someone else, the staff politely introduced the man and boy to me. They explained that I had been working with Atticus, that I knew him better than anyone else at this time, and that I would be happy to bring him out so that they could meet him. I sensed impending disaster. As mentioned before, Atticus did not expect to use his new behaviors with “normal” people, so his high-energy antics could be on full display. I suspected that the dog weighed as much as the boy. Did I mention that it was winter? I thought so. The play yard we used for introductions was covered in snow.

The young boy wanted to walk Atticus first. I wanted Dad to try, but I was outvoted two to one. As Dad and I watched, the boy proudly took the leash. Almost immediately Atticus took off at a full run, dragging the boy behind him. I glanced at Dad to catch his reaction. To my surprise, he was smiling! I turned back around, and instead of seeing the poor lad facedown in the snow I saw the youngster with both legs locked stiff, remaining upright, skiing behind Atticus as the pair zigzagged back and forth across the lawn! He was having the time of his life. Dad looked at me and said, “He’s perfect. Can we have him?”

Therein lies the beautiful truth about dogs. One man’s problem dog is another man’s joy. With the best intentions, we at Best Friends try to help dogs become more adoptable. We encourage behavior that would seem to open more doors to potential homes. But, in the end, the more pertinent goal is to find the right match between home and dog. I still believe there is value in helping dogs change some of their behaviors, but I realize that the value inherent in their individuality should not be underestimated. In this case, the “magic” happened not because of my efforts to shape Atticus into some generic adoptable dog, but precisely because of the unique qualities that made him Atticus.