Dog Training

We've been taking the dogs to training  for the last several weeks. They are in the "beginner" class.
Lily, the 4-year old probably German Shepherd-Whippet Mix has to wear a muzzle to training so she won't try to eat the other dogs in the class. This is quite embarrassing. She is a sweetie with people, but for some reason other dogs make her blood boil.
Charlie, the 9-month old probably German Shorthair Pointer-Jack Russell Mix doesn't need a muzzle. But he thinks of Lily as his mom, so he has separation anxiety and cries when he sees Lily ALL THE WAY ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE CIRCLE. This, too, is quite embarrassing. Unlike Lily, Charlie doesn't try to eat other dogs, however, he likes to bark at them. Incessantly.
We've never gone to dog school with any of our other dogs. Michelle was a mild-mannered Great Pyrenees who lumbered peacefully through life. As long as my mom gave her a "3-o'clock treat," and she went for a walk every day, she was fine. Paul made her an enormous dog house with a covered front porch. She regally reclined on her front porch, surveying the land and probably wishing for a few sheep to guard.
When Michelle was about 10, Nesta came into our life by way of our son and daughter-in-law, who rescued her from abandonment at the Farmer's Market. A sweet and loving black coon hound, Nesta's major fault was finding and rolling in decomposing squirrels, of which there were a ready supply in and around our property.
Michelle went to Dog Heaven at the ripe old (dog) age of 14, and we were glad to have our dear Nessy to comfort us. But poor Nesta experienced a string of bad luck. First, while Paul was walking her in the park, a pit bull in a yard facing the park jumped over three fences in order to attack her. He bit her in the haunches and fortunately, she had some extra fat on her, so the bite, while serious, wasn't as bad as it could have been. But that's when we found out that the extra fat was the result of hypothyroidism, so she had to go on thyroid medication. That was fine for awhile, until one evening when we were heading over to our son's to babysit. We always took Nesta with us because the kids loved to climb all over her. Walking to the car, Nesta walked right into the side of it. When we got to Michael's, she couldn't find the front steps. Inside the house, we noticed that she had her eyes closed. We looked at them and the whites were purple -- we rushed her to the emergency vet, who told us she had a rare blood disease. Cortisone might help -- in six months she'd either be cured or dead. She never recovered.
Dog-less, I was inconsolable. I cruised the Humane Society until Buddy emerged as the sure winner. A Golden mix, Buddy had been tagged as a potential therapy dog, and he definitely provided needed therapy for our mourning family. Sweet and gentle, his feather-duster tail and deep topaz eyes let us know we were his. He was pretty much the perfect dog. Like his predecessors, there didn't seem much need to take him to obedience school. He was already obedient.
Buddy survived the cross-country move to Arizona even though he spent part of the trip wearing a jade plant in the tiny cocoon of space he had in the overflowing station wagon.
For some reason, we felt it was important to get Buddy a pal after we'd lived in Phoenix for about a year. After a few unsuccessful matchmaking trials, Lily met his approval. Always the perfect gentleman, Buddy tolerated his little "sister's" continual antics, never complaining as she bounced around him, tugging his ears, dancing between his feet. Lily quickly became the alpha dog in the family. Even before she was fully grown, we had to stop taking both dogs to the dog park, because Lily would turn on some dog she'd just been playing with, and her loyal big brother felt it his duty to jump into the fray.
It was right about that time that we should have signed Lily up for obedience classes. But we didn't. Instead, we struggled with her on walks, as she strained against her leash, Buddy calmly loping behind her. She made a ruckus anytime anyone walked past the house, and our only response was a flaccid and unsuccessful "Lily, NO!"
We lost Buddy to an acute brain disorder shortly after he'd had surgery to remove his eye. All three if us, Lily, my husband and I sunk into a deep sadness. I had a new obsession: cruising the online rescue websites for a new puppy. Not a replacement for Buddy; there could never be a replacement. More, I was looking for something positive and joyful to focus on. Charlie became that something. A 16-pound puddle of puppy pudding when we adopted him, Charlie amazingly melted Lily's anti-dog heart. She quickly became Charlie's mom and we all focused on turning Charlie into a fine young adult.
Except that Lily couldn't help in that regard. Strong-willed and domineering, Lily might show Charlie the best place to go potty -- outside, not inside -- and how to sit for a treat, but she also taught him how to bark at anything coming anywhere near the house, the car, or us.
I bought a 5-hour training video that came with special collars and leashes. They ate the leashes. They didn't respond to the collars -- shaped like a mama dog's teeth, they were supposed to remind the dogs to be good. Our dogs didn't even seem to notice them -- the snap/tug made no impression.
We began interviewing dog trainers, settling on a company called "Sit Means Sit." They use electronic collars to "tap" the dogs, reminding them to pay attention. They also use cute little doggie cots, where the dogs are supposed to "place" when they're not otherwise engaged. As I write this the doggie cots sit empty. Lily is happily dozing on a chair in the living room; Charlie on the bed.
Paul and I are what you might call "laid back." So we are having to train ourselves even more than training the dogs. But we have a goal. We've never taken the dogs camping with us. Previously when we've gone camping, there's always been someone living at the house to watch the dogs. Now there isn't and our goal is to have wonderful, well-behaved dogs that can remain calm and off-leash on their little cots at our campsite, totally oblivious of all distractions -- unless there is a bear. Somehow we have to train them that it's okay to bark at bears.