"So I’ll cherish the old rugged cross, til my trophies at last I lay down . . . ”
When I sang this hymn as a youth in the Wapello United Methodist Church, I was pretty sure the song writer was not talking about the shiny trophies awarded for achievement in the dog show ring.
My life was awash in trophies at that time. It was the early 1980s and I was showing my first Tervuren, Gypsy, in 4-H shows (there were a lot of 4-H shows, back in the day) and at American Kennel Club shows. I won a lot, which meant I brought home a lot of trophies. Even when I didn’t win, clubs frequently gave trophies for second, third and fourth placements in a class. It was a trophy mad world and I was in the center of it.
Thirty years later, I would be quite happy to lay those trophies down but I can’t find anyone who wants them.
They lived at my parents’ house until my mother had enough and sent them to my house. They sat, packed in dusty cardboard boxes in the dark recess of an upstairs bedroom closet, for at least 10 years. Then I began the Great House Purge of 2013.
It was time to fish or cut bait when it came to those trophies. Asking them the Magic Question did not yield a positive answer. No, if we were moving they would not be worth packing up, hauling to a new house, unpacking and finding a place for.
I unwrapped every single trophy and arranged them all on the floor of an empty room. There they sat in their tarnished, scuffed, chipped, dusty glory, representing the early years of my dog training and showing career, from the mid 1970s to the late 1980s.
Fortunately, two things happened to stop the influx of trophies: 1) I went to college and did not show dogs for four years and 2) when I did return to showing dogs in the late 1980s, giving actual metal and faux marble trophies was no longer en vogue on the show scene. Prizes had changed to semi-useful items, like candle sticks or paperweights and sometimes even actual cash awards. (And blankets, coats, napkin rings and decorated bricks. This is an entire post in itself.)
Studying the vast array of victory figures lofting laurel wreaths, I wondered why I’d been so adamant my mother not take the whole works to the landfill in the first place. She had suggested that. I had responded with anguish. Now the trophies were in my house, not hers. My anguish was rapidly returning.
Here was the problem. The trophies represented a lot of good times. Achievement. Friends. Discovery. Growth. But they were dangerously close to becoming sacred icons of clutter - those worn out old things you can’t or won’t dispose of because they once played a huge part in your life, therefore you’ll spend the rest of your years with them attached to you like a millstone around your neck. They needed to go but the idea of pitching them in the Dumpster didn't feel right.
Someone suggested I donate them to the local county fair. The engraved plates could easily be removed and new ones put in their place, saving the price of buying entirely new trophies. On the surface that sounded like an excellent idea. Except for the fact that today’s youth livestock exhibitors do not want a tarnished award left over from someone else’s glory days 30 years ago. The trophies lining the livestock awards tables at the Iowa County Fair each year are of uniform sparkling style and color.
Next, I called a trophy shop in Iowa City, the same one, in fact, where many of the trophies littering my floor had originated three decades ago.
“Do you have a trophy recycling program?” I asked.
“No,” the proprietor answered, “not unless you count making a trip to the landfill.”
Apparently he routinely comes to work in the morning to find large boxes of abandoned trophies sitting on his doorstep, left there by people who were hoping they could enjoy a happy reincarnation.
Try a charity, my friends suggested. I called the Iowa Special Olympics office. “Thank you for thinking of us, but all our trophies have to be registered with Special Olympics,” they said. I have no idea what that means. I think it was a nice way of saying, “Abso-freaking-lutely no way.”
I tried several other local charities, all with the same result. In the meantime, I opened a box full of beautiful walnut plaques with the 4-H emblem attached. They were all from 1982, either from the Louisa County Fair or my 4-H club’s training show. Apparently 1982 was a banner year for me. I couldn’t throw these in the trash. These actually were recyclable.
I put them back in the box and delivered them to the gal who has instructed the Iowa County 4-H dog project for a number of years.
“Here,” I said. “Merry Christmas.” I was not sure how this was going to be received but she seemed genuinely pleased and said she could give them as special awards to the kids who attended this year’s project training classes, separate from any county fair prizes.
It was a small victory for me - one without a victory figure.
And now I'm working up the fortitude to chuck the rest of them in the trash.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
The faces of fun
Wow. Two posts in one week. It's a post-Beltane miracle. Or maybe I just really need a break from house cleaning.
Today's post is from the “Things it took me a while to learn” file. This seems to be one of my bigger files.
Fun.
What a simple concept.
It brings to mind images of happy smiles and laughter. Doing something you find rewarding. Hanging out with friends in the park on a summer afternoon. Being with someone whose presence you enjoy tremendously. Those are all fun.
What about fun in obedience training? What does fun look like there?
John Q. Public recognizes the classic “happy dog” indicators: wagging tail, relaxed body, “smiling” facial expression. There are plenty of dogs who display that in their obedience work and it’s genuine. The dog is having fun.
Early in my training career, I made the mistake of thinking my dog had to present all the classic “happy dog” indicators all the time during training and showing. I thought if he wasn’t wagging his tail and dancing around, I had somehow failed as a trainer. While I understood the value of “attitude” in training, I completely neglected to recognize that not all dogs will present “fun” in the same way.
The result of this was that my desire to make sure my dog was always “having fun” often got in the way of helping my dog learn whatever it was I wanted to teach him.
It has taken me several years and several dogs to learn this. When my dog’s tail lowered or his ears went back, I used to immediately switch into “happy-happy” mode, determined my dog should constantly be the happiest one in the room. This usually meant producing toys or treats, which immediately derailed whatever skill we were working on. Since they were handed over basically for free, to “make him have fun,” Dog Brain immediately disconnected from learning mode into treat-eating or ball-chasing mode.
Once I learned to recognize that a lowered, non-wagging tail could be a sign of intense focus OR a symptom of anxiety, it became much easier to know when to keep moving forward in training vs. stopping for a break to relieve unintentional training stress.
While the concept of “having fun” in training IS vitally important, I’m less concerned with how the “fun” looks than I am with what other messages my dog is sending and the overall tone of what we’re doing together. Sometimes we need to stop and re-set our mutual attitude. Other times we can push ahead through a degree of pressure and move closer to my end goal, knowing my dog is a willing, curious, engaged participant.
I’ve been blessed with dogs who thought whatever we were doing at the moment was absolutely the most fun anyone could have. I am currently blessed with a dog who does not believe obedience is automatically the pinnacle of tail-wagging delight.
I can tell when Phoenix is “in the moment” and I can recognize his “having fun/not having fun” indicators. Seeing the sparkle in his eye before I send him for a scent article (his all-time favorite exercise), there is no doubt in my mind that even though he looks intensely serious, he is absolutely having fun and I can throw challenges at him. Other times, his seriousness means the "not fun" sign is on and it's time to address whatever problem is interfering - boredom, confusion, worry, etc.
Training, playing and living with this creature has been a journey that almost immediately drove off the carefully scripted map I had in my mind. He continues to teach me and to stretch my abilities as a trainer to limits I’d never imagined.
Today's post is from the “Things it took me a while to learn” file. This seems to be one of my bigger files.
Fun.
What a simple concept.
It brings to mind images of happy smiles and laughter. Doing something you find rewarding. Hanging out with friends in the park on a summer afternoon. Being with someone whose presence you enjoy tremendously. Those are all fun.
What about fun in obedience training? What does fun look like there?
John Q. Public recognizes the classic “happy dog” indicators: wagging tail, relaxed body, “smiling” facial expression. There are plenty of dogs who display that in their obedience work and it’s genuine. The dog is having fun.
Early in my training career, I made the mistake of thinking my dog had to present all the classic “happy dog” indicators all the time during training and showing. I thought if he wasn’t wagging his tail and dancing around, I had somehow failed as a trainer. While I understood the value of “attitude” in training, I completely neglected to recognize that not all dogs will present “fun” in the same way.
The result of this was that my desire to make sure my dog was always “having fun” often got in the way of helping my dog learn whatever it was I wanted to teach him.
It has taken me several years and several dogs to learn this. When my dog’s tail lowered or his ears went back, I used to immediately switch into “happy-happy” mode, determined my dog should constantly be the happiest one in the room. This usually meant producing toys or treats, which immediately derailed whatever skill we were working on. Since they were handed over basically for free, to “make him have fun,” Dog Brain immediately disconnected from learning mode into treat-eating or ball-chasing mode.
Once I learned to recognize that a lowered, non-wagging tail could be a sign of intense focus OR a symptom of anxiety, it became much easier to know when to keep moving forward in training vs. stopping for a break to relieve unintentional training stress.
While the concept of “having fun” in training IS vitally important, I’m less concerned with how the “fun” looks than I am with what other messages my dog is sending and the overall tone of what we’re doing together. Sometimes we need to stop and re-set our mutual attitude. Other times we can push ahead through a degree of pressure and move closer to my end goal, knowing my dog is a willing, curious, engaged participant.
I’ve been blessed with dogs who thought whatever we were doing at the moment was absolutely the most fun anyone could have. I am currently blessed with a dog who does not believe obedience is automatically the pinnacle of tail-wagging delight.
I can tell when Phoenix is “in the moment” and I can recognize his “having fun/not having fun” indicators. Seeing the sparkle in his eye before I send him for a scent article (his all-time favorite exercise), there is no doubt in my mind that even though he looks intensely serious, he is absolutely having fun and I can throw challenges at him. Other times, his seriousness means the "not fun" sign is on and it's time to address whatever problem is interfering - boredom, confusion, worry, etc.
Training, playing and living with this creature has been a journey that almost immediately drove off the carefully scripted map I had in my mind. He continues to teach me and to stretch my abilities as a trainer to limits I’d never imagined.
Monday, May 6, 2013
It's the Big One
I feel like I’m neglecting you, dear readers. Forgive me, but I’ve spent the last week going batshit crazy cleaning house and getting ready for a garage sale.
That’s not an exaggeration. Just ask the Farmer. He’s afraid I’m going to slap a price tag on him and put him on the sale pile. Ask Phoenix, who has been helping me in his very special malinois way. Ask Jamie, who is highly annoyed he can no longer make it up the stairs to the second floor rooms to supervise the proceedings.
It all started when I ran across this on the web. Actually it started before that, but this kicked it into high gear.
“When there is visual chaos, as opposed to clear flat spaces in our home, it creates tension that keeps us from truly relaxing . . . Clutter robs us of peace, tranquility, time and enjoyment, and instead gives us stress.”
It’s true. Clutter causes stress. I had to de-clutter. The more I de-cluttered, the better I felt. I’ve discovered a new hobby - throwing stuff out. I’ve spent the better part of a week throwing stuff out and I wonder why I didn’t do this before. The weather has been so rotten (icy rain and — gasp — snow) that working indoors has been quite appealing.
I’ve started the Great House Purge of 2013. There have been previous house purges but this is The Big One. My goal isn’t to have a house that looks like a Better Homes and Gardens layout. I just want it to be tidy and relatively clean and I want to be able to find stuff when I need it. Most of all, I want to not feel claustrophobic because I’m surrounded by a bunch of stuff that’s just taking up air space for no good reason. I’d rather have the closet space. Floor space. Counter space. Open space.
It’s been 25 years since I graduated from college. Two and a half decades of accumulating stuff, 22 years in one house. The rooms the Farmer and I live in and use daily aren’t bad. I’ve kept ahead of the clutter there, out of necessity. It’s the second floor of our two-story farm house that’s reaching critical mass. That’s were old toasters go to die. And jeans I will never wear again because the five pounds I needed to lose has turned into 10 and ya know what, sister? It ain’t happenin’. And odd bits of detritus from two decades of marriage that simply defied being re-homed or just plain thrown out when they should have been.
So I’m cleaning house. Room by room. Drawer by drawer. Closet by closet. The previous house purges I’ve done were mere warm ups compared to this one. I got rid of a lot of stuff during those previous purges, but it was always easy to be indecisive about something and just put the box back into the closet because it was easier than actually opening it and dealing with what was inside. I wasn’t ready to part with high school trinkets or 4-H scrapbooks yet.
This time, it’s different. I’m a ruthless, brutal, clutter-whacking fiend. I have a box of Hefty trash bags and I know how to use them. I’m hauling enough stuff to this garage sale to start my own second-hand shop.
If I start feeling bogged down, I ask myself the Magic Question: “If we moved, would this be worth packing up, hauling to a new house, unpacking and finding a spot for?”
We’re not moving, but the Magic Question is very helpful when it comes to making decisions about what stays and what goes. There is some stuff that promises sentimental attachment on the surface but when faced with the prospect of requiring more energy to maintain it, the sentimental glow fades quickly.
It’s easy to be brutal when you’re lazy.
I’ve started on the second floor rooms first because: A) they’re more work than the first floor rooms (they’re where all the “let’s keep that, we might need it some day” stuff lives and B) I’d like to get them done before summer, when it gets hot and the central air doesn’t quite make it all the way up there. I’ve been pushing hard to get ready for this garage sale but I know the Great House Purge of 2013 will last long into the summer.
Last summer I helped my aunt clean out her house and move. It was stressful. There were so many things she did not want to say good-bye to. I understood. They were reminders of her childhood, of days when she and loved ones were young and strong and life was a happy frolic. There was no pain or illness or the looming threat of nursing home care. They were reminders of dreams, some gloriously realized, some not. Throwing them away, either in a burn pile or on an estate auction, meant those days and those dreams were gone forever.
Over the weekend, I sat on a bedroom floor in our house with Phoenix’s head in my lap and paged through scrapbooks filled with dusty newspaper clippings and truly awful photos of 4-H club activities. I’m pretty sure I’m the only person in the world who cared what the Wapello Busy Bees were doing to prepare for the county fair in the summer of 1981. I laughed. I reminisced. I threw it out.
I kept some things - my grandmother’s engagement ring, the tassels from my high school and college graduation caps, my bouquet from our wedding, Jess and Connor’s scent articles - things that are worth packing up and moving. Someday.
In the meantime, I’ve called the local theatre company about donating stuff for props or costumes. I’m selling some of the “What was I thinking?” antiques I’ve bought over the years. I’ve got my eye on a few things that need to go to the local furniture refinishing shop for a makeover. I’ve tried finding a place to recycle the eight (count ‘em, eight) jam-packed boxes of 4-H dog show trophies my mom so cleverly insisted I take out of HER house.
My garage sale pile has reached gargantuan proportions. I’ve made numerous trips to drop things off at Goodwill. I need to make an appointment with a coin dealer to have my grandmother’s eclectic collection of coins appraised and, hopefully, sold. I need to take my old Nikon and accompanying lenses to a camera shop to see what kind of deal they will make me. As usual, there’s a tote filling up for my obedience club’s garage sale next year, and I’ve been tossing garbage bags full of things I’ll never miss into the Dumpster at the office with deranged glee.
Who knew cleaning house could be so much work?
It feels wonderful.
That’s not an exaggeration. Just ask the Farmer. He’s afraid I’m going to slap a price tag on him and put him on the sale pile. Ask Phoenix, who has been helping me in his very special malinois way. Ask Jamie, who is highly annoyed he can no longer make it up the stairs to the second floor rooms to supervise the proceedings.
It all started when I ran across this on the web. Actually it started before that, but this kicked it into high gear.
“When there is visual chaos, as opposed to clear flat spaces in our home, it creates tension that keeps us from truly relaxing . . . Clutter robs us of peace, tranquility, time and enjoyment, and instead gives us stress.”
From www.home-storage-solutions-101.com
It’s true. Clutter causes stress. I had to de-clutter. The more I de-cluttered, the better I felt. I’ve discovered a new hobby - throwing stuff out. I’ve spent the better part of a week throwing stuff out and I wonder why I didn’t do this before. The weather has been so rotten (icy rain and — gasp — snow) that working indoors has been quite appealing.
I’ve started the Great House Purge of 2013. There have been previous house purges but this is The Big One. My goal isn’t to have a house that looks like a Better Homes and Gardens layout. I just want it to be tidy and relatively clean and I want to be able to find stuff when I need it. Most of all, I want to not feel claustrophobic because I’m surrounded by a bunch of stuff that’s just taking up air space for no good reason. I’d rather have the closet space. Floor space. Counter space. Open space.
It’s been 25 years since I graduated from college. Two and a half decades of accumulating stuff, 22 years in one house. The rooms the Farmer and I live in and use daily aren’t bad. I’ve kept ahead of the clutter there, out of necessity. It’s the second floor of our two-story farm house that’s reaching critical mass. That’s were old toasters go to die. And jeans I will never wear again because the five pounds I needed to lose has turned into 10 and ya know what, sister? It ain’t happenin’. And odd bits of detritus from two decades of marriage that simply defied being re-homed or just plain thrown out when they should have been.
So I’m cleaning house. Room by room. Drawer by drawer. Closet by closet. The previous house purges I’ve done were mere warm ups compared to this one. I got rid of a lot of stuff during those previous purges, but it was always easy to be indecisive about something and just put the box back into the closet because it was easier than actually opening it and dealing with what was inside. I wasn’t ready to part with high school trinkets or 4-H scrapbooks yet.
This time, it’s different. I’m a ruthless, brutal, clutter-whacking fiend. I have a box of Hefty trash bags and I know how to use them. I’m hauling enough stuff to this garage sale to start my own second-hand shop.
If I start feeling bogged down, I ask myself the Magic Question: “If we moved, would this be worth packing up, hauling to a new house, unpacking and finding a spot for?”
We’re not moving, but the Magic Question is very helpful when it comes to making decisions about what stays and what goes. There is some stuff that promises sentimental attachment on the surface but when faced with the prospect of requiring more energy to maintain it, the sentimental glow fades quickly.
It’s easy to be brutal when you’re lazy.
I’ve started on the second floor rooms first because: A) they’re more work than the first floor rooms (they’re where all the “let’s keep that, we might need it some day” stuff lives and B) I’d like to get them done before summer, when it gets hot and the central air doesn’t quite make it all the way up there. I’ve been pushing hard to get ready for this garage sale but I know the Great House Purge of 2013 will last long into the summer.
Last summer I helped my aunt clean out her house and move. It was stressful. There were so many things she did not want to say good-bye to. I understood. They were reminders of her childhood, of days when she and loved ones were young and strong and life was a happy frolic. There was no pain or illness or the looming threat of nursing home care. They were reminders of dreams, some gloriously realized, some not. Throwing them away, either in a burn pile or on an estate auction, meant those days and those dreams were gone forever.
Over the weekend, I sat on a bedroom floor in our house with Phoenix’s head in my lap and paged through scrapbooks filled with dusty newspaper clippings and truly awful photos of 4-H club activities. I’m pretty sure I’m the only person in the world who cared what the Wapello Busy Bees were doing to prepare for the county fair in the summer of 1981. I laughed. I reminisced. I threw it out.
I kept some things - my grandmother’s engagement ring, the tassels from my high school and college graduation caps, my bouquet from our wedding, Jess and Connor’s scent articles - things that are worth packing up and moving. Someday.
In the meantime, I’ve called the local theatre company about donating stuff for props or costumes. I’m selling some of the “What was I thinking?” antiques I’ve bought over the years. I’ve got my eye on a few things that need to go to the local furniture refinishing shop for a makeover. I’ve tried finding a place to recycle the eight (count ‘em, eight) jam-packed boxes of 4-H dog show trophies my mom so cleverly insisted I take out of HER house.
My garage sale pile has reached gargantuan proportions. I’ve made numerous trips to drop things off at Goodwill. I need to make an appointment with a coin dealer to have my grandmother’s eclectic collection of coins appraised and, hopefully, sold. I need to take my old Nikon and accompanying lenses to a camera shop to see what kind of deal they will make me. As usual, there’s a tote filling up for my obedience club’s garage sale next year, and I’ve been tossing garbage bags full of things I’ll never miss into the Dumpster at the office with deranged glee.
Who knew cleaning house could be so much work?
It feels wonderful.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Vintage Shelties
I've been cleaning house to prep for a company garage sale in a couple of weeks. In the process of emptying a closet, I found some fun pics from the Sheltie years.
This is my first Sheltie, Jess, April 1989.
Here's Connor and me, his first CD leg, April 1996.
Tied for HIT, lost the run-off. Do we look devastated?
It's a wonder my feet were even on the ground -
I'd never been in a HIT run-off before.
Tammy E., I still have the kilts and bonnets you made for my lads!
(Halloween, mid 1990s)
Okay, I'm namin' names!
Team, 2nd place, DMOTC, September 1995
Eric Hendrickson and Sebastian
Michele Hartzler and Oscar
Melinda Wichmann and Jess
Tammy Etscheidt and Molly
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
A question of style
I was chatting with a friend at an obedience trial and the topic turned to style. Not style as in any sort of fashion sense (good thing, because we know the fashion police would love to carry some of us away and I’d probably be the first one to go) but style as in how a dog works in the ring.
Some dogs are enthusiastic in their work. Some are brisk and efficient. Some are mechanical. Some plod through the exercises while others work like they are about to spontaneously combust.
And some dogs work like “bug-eyed lunatics.” My friend’s words, not mine.
“I do NOT,” she emphasized, “want my dog to work like a bug-eyed lunatic.”
This made me think. What qualities do I value in ring presentation? What is my ideal picture? Is it a realistic picture for the dog I have? Is it smarter to focus on training my dog to fit my ideal picture or to let my dog’s natural tendencies shine and play to those strengths instead?
My first sheltie, Jess, was crazy. Plain and simple. He bounced and spun with no encouragement from me, pounced in the article pile, barked on go-outs and never stopped wagging his tail. He was who he was and it never occurred to me to make him otherwise. (It's simple to have this easy-come, easy-go attitude when you are not concerned with scores.)
Second sheltie, Connor, was the consummate obedience trial dog. I am convinced he was put on this earth to do obedience. I could have taken off his leash at the ring gate and he would have put himself through the exercises. He loved the ring spotlight.
Terv Jamie was an efficiency expert. His work was smooth and graceful. He performed with joy. He was a gentleman.
Then came Phoenix. He was my first dog who did not naturally enjoy obedience, mostly due to reasons of my own creation. He was my first dog I felt I needed to “change.” I tried changing him to fit a current popular training style. It didn’t work. He taught me to “train the dog you have” and we’re enjoying each other much more now.
So what’s the picture I want in the ring?
• Calm. I want my dog to be calm because I do not want to spend our time in the ring constantly keeping him in check. Calm does not mean lethargic. Calm means clear-headed, not frantic.
• Thinking. I want my dog to be able to think through any problems presented by a distracting trial environment so he can perform correctly.
• Engaged. I want my dog to remain engaged with me throughout our run. We used to call this “focus.” I like “engaged” better. It makes it sound like the dog and handler are enjoying their time with one another vs. merely having one party focus exclusively on the other party.
That’s it. Pretty simple. A clear-headed, thinking, engaged dog. When I get that in the ring, I’m on top of the world. Doesn’t mean we’re going to win. Doesn’t mean we’re even going to qualify. But it does mean we’re working together, as a team. That’s why I do obedience.
I deliberately left off a fourth aspect of ring presentation: having fun. Yes, it's important but "fun" is such an ethereal quality to pin down it deserves its own post.
Some dogs are enthusiastic in their work. Some are brisk and efficient. Some are mechanical. Some plod through the exercises while others work like they are about to spontaneously combust.
And some dogs work like “bug-eyed lunatics.” My friend’s words, not mine.
“I do NOT,” she emphasized, “want my dog to work like a bug-eyed lunatic.”
This made me think. What qualities do I value in ring presentation? What is my ideal picture? Is it a realistic picture for the dog I have? Is it smarter to focus on training my dog to fit my ideal picture or to let my dog’s natural tendencies shine and play to those strengths instead?
My first sheltie, Jess, was crazy. Plain and simple. He bounced and spun with no encouragement from me, pounced in the article pile, barked on go-outs and never stopped wagging his tail. He was who he was and it never occurred to me to make him otherwise. (It's simple to have this easy-come, easy-go attitude when you are not concerned with scores.)
Second sheltie, Connor, was the consummate obedience trial dog. I am convinced he was put on this earth to do obedience. I could have taken off his leash at the ring gate and he would have put himself through the exercises. He loved the ring spotlight.
Terv Jamie was an efficiency expert. His work was smooth and graceful. He performed with joy. He was a gentleman.
Then came Phoenix. He was my first dog who did not naturally enjoy obedience, mostly due to reasons of my own creation. He was my first dog I felt I needed to “change.” I tried changing him to fit a current popular training style. It didn’t work. He taught me to “train the dog you have” and we’re enjoying each other much more now.
So what’s the picture I want in the ring?
• Calm. I want my dog to be calm because I do not want to spend our time in the ring constantly keeping him in check. Calm does not mean lethargic. Calm means clear-headed, not frantic.
• Thinking. I want my dog to be able to think through any problems presented by a distracting trial environment so he can perform correctly.
• Engaged. I want my dog to remain engaged with me throughout our run. We used to call this “focus.” I like “engaged” better. It makes it sound like the dog and handler are enjoying their time with one another vs. merely having one party focus exclusively on the other party.
That’s it. Pretty simple. A clear-headed, thinking, engaged dog. When I get that in the ring, I’m on top of the world. Doesn’t mean we’re going to win. Doesn’t mean we’re even going to qualify. But it does mean we’re working together, as a team. That’s why I do obedience.
I deliberately left off a fourth aspect of ring presentation: having fun. Yes, it's important but "fun" is such an ethereal quality to pin down it deserves its own post.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
April showers
I like listening to rain falling on a tent when I’m cuddled up with my dogs, snug and warm and dry inside the tent, with no particular reason to get up any time soon.
I like listening to rain falling against the house windows before dawn, knowing I can roll over and burrow back into the blankets and not have to get up yet.
I like watching the rain falling in silver veils across the fields, blurring the outline of the stone church in the distance, while I sit in my recliner with a mug of cocoa, Phoenix and my laptop.
But for the love of God, it has rained over 8 inches in the last 9 days at our house. We’ve just experienced nearly 24 straight hours of thunderstorms. (Thank goodness Jamie has lost his hearing entirely because he was happily oblivious amidst the thunder and lightning for the first time in his life.) With all due respect to the devastating drought we experienced last summer and fall, this can stop any time now!
Two people didn’t come to work today because their basements were flooding. One person didn’t come to work because water was dripping through her kitchen ceiling. One person didn’t come to work because flash flooding had closed her road and she couldn’t get to the highway.
The rain is welcome. Don’t get me wrong. I just hope we’re not receiving the entire summer’s allotment in the space of a few weeks. The weather dude on TV this morning said we’re very close to having received triple April’s normal rainfall total and the month is barely half over. The town where I teach classes got 8 inches of rainfall IN ONE DAY.
At class last night, a friend commented, “Remember the drought we had last summer?”
Oddly enough, when our country roads are a quagmire, ditches are full, creeks are running out of their banks, the river is slowly climbing the levee, my kitchen floor is a study in muddy pawprints and the laundry room is piled with wet clothes, no, I don’t remember it at all.
I am really having a hard time relating to last summer when there were huge cracks in the ground (you could see them because the grass was all dead and brown), had a rainfall deficit of nearly 12 inches and our rural water service kept sending out letters requesting customers use water conservation practices because wells were failing.
Mother Nature is at her whack-a-doodle best this spring. Rain remains in the forecast for 3 out of the next 5 days. Snow is in the forecast for one of the days when it’s not raining. I’m starting to feel like we skipped spring and summer and went directly to late November. The Farmer is gnashing his teeth because spring fieldwork is at a standstill.
Our grass is a lovely green, but without warmth it’s not growing. Which is a good thing because it never quits raining long enough to mow it.
***
Thanks, everyone, for your condolences and expressions of sympathy and understanding at the Farmer’s dad’s death.
The Farmer-In-Law was definitely not a dog person and like several of you mentioned, some people just never “get it” when it comes to interacting with dogs. That’s just who he was. It makes me appreciate the deepness of my relationships with my dogs and the beauty of having them in my life even more.
One of my favorite memories of him was the day he pulled up in front of our house and got out of the pickup. He was eating a sandwich, held in his left hand. Jamie immediately ran over to see if he would share (as if). The Farmer-In-Law raised his sandwich-holding arm high up, Jamie leaped into the air, executed a mid-air pivot I would have LOVED to get in the ring, dropped down into heel position and accompanied the Farmer-In-Law toward the machine shed, heeling perfectly and with total engagement, until I managed to quit laughing long enough to call him back to me. The Farmer-In-Law never had a clue that my dog was WORKING for him.
Silly man. Beautiful dog. Wonderful life.
I like listening to rain falling against the house windows before dawn, knowing I can roll over and burrow back into the blankets and not have to get up yet.
I like watching the rain falling in silver veils across the fields, blurring the outline of the stone church in the distance, while I sit in my recliner with a mug of cocoa, Phoenix and my laptop.
But for the love of God, it has rained over 8 inches in the last 9 days at our house. We’ve just experienced nearly 24 straight hours of thunderstorms. (Thank goodness Jamie has lost his hearing entirely because he was happily oblivious amidst the thunder and lightning for the first time in his life.) With all due respect to the devastating drought we experienced last summer and fall, this can stop any time now!
Two people didn’t come to work today because their basements were flooding. One person didn’t come to work because water was dripping through her kitchen ceiling. One person didn’t come to work because flash flooding had closed her road and she couldn’t get to the highway.
The rain is welcome. Don’t get me wrong. I just hope we’re not receiving the entire summer’s allotment in the space of a few weeks. The weather dude on TV this morning said we’re very close to having received triple April’s normal rainfall total and the month is barely half over. The town where I teach classes got 8 inches of rainfall IN ONE DAY.
At class last night, a friend commented, “Remember the drought we had last summer?”
Oddly enough, when our country roads are a quagmire, ditches are full, creeks are running out of their banks, the river is slowly climbing the levee, my kitchen floor is a study in muddy pawprints and the laundry room is piled with wet clothes, no, I don’t remember it at all.
I am really having a hard time relating to last summer when there were huge cracks in the ground (you could see them because the grass was all dead and brown), had a rainfall deficit of nearly 12 inches and our rural water service kept sending out letters requesting customers use water conservation practices because wells were failing.
Mother Nature is at her whack-a-doodle best this spring. Rain remains in the forecast for 3 out of the next 5 days. Snow is in the forecast for one of the days when it’s not raining. I’m starting to feel like we skipped spring and summer and went directly to late November. The Farmer is gnashing his teeth because spring fieldwork is at a standstill.
Our grass is a lovely green, but without warmth it’s not growing. Which is a good thing because it never quits raining long enough to mow it.
***
Thanks, everyone, for your condolences and expressions of sympathy and understanding at the Farmer’s dad’s death.
The Farmer-In-Law was definitely not a dog person and like several of you mentioned, some people just never “get it” when it comes to interacting with dogs. That’s just who he was. It makes me appreciate the deepness of my relationships with my dogs and the beauty of having them in my life even more.
One of my favorite memories of him was the day he pulled up in front of our house and got out of the pickup. He was eating a sandwich, held in his left hand. Jamie immediately ran over to see if he would share (as if). The Farmer-In-Law raised his sandwich-holding arm high up, Jamie leaped into the air, executed a mid-air pivot I would have LOVED to get in the ring, dropped down into heel position and accompanied the Farmer-In-Law toward the machine shed, heeling perfectly and with total engagement, until I managed to quit laughing long enough to call him back to me. The Farmer-In-Law never had a clue that my dog was WORKING for him.
Silly man. Beautiful dog. Wonderful life.
Monday, April 15, 2013
Loss and reflection
The Farmer’s father died last week. The funeral is behind us, the last of the leftovers have been eaten, casserole dishes and cake plates washed and returned to neighbors. It’s an awkward time, when we all try to act like nothing happened, like there has been no devastating loss, like life is "back to normal."
Only it isn’t. It has changed and change is often painful.
The Farmer-In-Law had cancer. In many ways, his death was a blessing. He fought the disease for years but there was not going to be a cure with a happy ever after ending. His family (his wife of 55 years, the Farmer, another son and two daughters) were steadfastly by his side until the end. When it became clear the chemo treatments weren’t doing anything but making him sicker and weaker and even more unhappy, he spent his last few days in hospice care and slipped quietly from this world.
While the Farmer-In-Law and I were not BFFs, I feel the pain of his loss reflected in the Farmer and his family. They lost their dad, their husband, their lifetime business partner and mentor.
The Farmer-In-Law and I did not see eye to eye on a lot of things. He was delighted to find his third-generation farm kid son was going to marry a third-generation farm kid girl. That delight soured shortly after our wedding, when it became apparent I had no intention of following the “get married, get pregnant, stay at home, raise babies, go to church and wait on your man” tradition. We existed in a perpetual state of agreeing to disagree.
And he didn’t like my dogs.
Sigh.
I can tolerate a lot of things but if you don’t like my dogs, we’re probably not going to have a warm and fuzzy relationship. Not only did he not like my dogs, the Farmer-In-Law was a poster child for everything you can do wrong around dogs. A lifetime cattleman, he had NO dog sense whatsoever. I was always amazed that someone who worked around capricious 1,300 pound steers and unpredictable mama cows for his entire life could be so clueless about how to act around dogs.
This was a problem since the Farmer, his brother and the Farmer-In-Law worked our family farm together. The Farmer-In-Law was around our place a lot.
He was okay with my shelties. Sort of. In a stubborn “if I ignore them they’ll go away” sort of approach. It worked. The shelties ignored him right back as only shelties can.
Then I got Jamie. As far as the Farmer-In-Law was concerned, Jamie was going to bite him, it was just a matter of time. Jamie looked like a German Shepherd. Everyone knows German Shepherds are mean and they bite. Therefore, Jamie was mean and would bite. It was an unfortunate truth that a nearby neighbor DID have a German Shepherd (poorly socialized, with major fear issues) and it DID bite the Farmer-In-Law. More than once. So Jamie suffered by guilt by association.
When Phoenix came along, he looked even MORE like a German Shepherd, therefore chances were even higher that Phoenix would bite him.
I tried.
Honestly to God, I tried.
The Farmer-In-Law resisted every effort I made to show him how friendly my dogs are. I really think Phoenix’s feelings were hurt when his waggy-tail, squinty-eye approaches were rebuffed, often with angry yelling and waving arms and stomping feet. That will turn away cattle. It does not turn away malinois. I tried telling the Farmer-In-Law he WAS going to get bit if he came onto our property and acted aggressively toward the dogs. I tried telling him the dogs saw that as threatening behavior, that if he stood still and talked to them quietly, they would be his friend.
“Those dogs bite,” was all he had to say.
There was no changing his damn fool stubborn mindset. I learned to pick my battles and when to walk away. If he was around the place, I simply kept the dogs away from him. Jamie will be 14 this summer. Phoenix is 6. Neither of them ever bit the Farmer-In-Law, in spite of being given many chances over the years. Ironically, the Farmer’s mom LIKES my dogs. She tells me they are beautiful and “awfully big” and “kind of wild.” But she pets them and laughs at them and is appropriately amazed by the things they can do.
Life goes on. Spring planting season is just around the corner. I know the Farmer will miss his dad desperately as he heads to the field. Even after retiring (euphemism for “still works 12 hours a day but now gets a Social Security check, too) the Farmer-In-Law was an active part of our farm. Over the last few years, as the cancer started to take its toll, I’ve inherited some of his jobs. THAT is a column in itself.
Only it isn’t. It has changed and change is often painful.
The Farmer-In-Law had cancer. In many ways, his death was a blessing. He fought the disease for years but there was not going to be a cure with a happy ever after ending. His family (his wife of 55 years, the Farmer, another son and two daughters) were steadfastly by his side until the end. When it became clear the chemo treatments weren’t doing anything but making him sicker and weaker and even more unhappy, he spent his last few days in hospice care and slipped quietly from this world.
While the Farmer-In-Law and I were not BFFs, I feel the pain of his loss reflected in the Farmer and his family. They lost their dad, their husband, their lifetime business partner and mentor.
The Farmer-In-Law and I did not see eye to eye on a lot of things. He was delighted to find his third-generation farm kid son was going to marry a third-generation farm kid girl. That delight soured shortly after our wedding, when it became apparent I had no intention of following the “get married, get pregnant, stay at home, raise babies, go to church and wait on your man” tradition. We existed in a perpetual state of agreeing to disagree.
And he didn’t like my dogs.
Sigh.
I can tolerate a lot of things but if you don’t like my dogs, we’re probably not going to have a warm and fuzzy relationship. Not only did he not like my dogs, the Farmer-In-Law was a poster child for everything you can do wrong around dogs. A lifetime cattleman, he had NO dog sense whatsoever. I was always amazed that someone who worked around capricious 1,300 pound steers and unpredictable mama cows for his entire life could be so clueless about how to act around dogs.
This was a problem since the Farmer, his brother and the Farmer-In-Law worked our family farm together. The Farmer-In-Law was around our place a lot.
He was okay with my shelties. Sort of. In a stubborn “if I ignore them they’ll go away” sort of approach. It worked. The shelties ignored him right back as only shelties can.
Then I got Jamie. As far as the Farmer-In-Law was concerned, Jamie was going to bite him, it was just a matter of time. Jamie looked like a German Shepherd. Everyone knows German Shepherds are mean and they bite. Therefore, Jamie was mean and would bite. It was an unfortunate truth that a nearby neighbor DID have a German Shepherd (poorly socialized, with major fear issues) and it DID bite the Farmer-In-Law. More than once. So Jamie suffered by guilt by association.
When Phoenix came along, he looked even MORE like a German Shepherd, therefore chances were even higher that Phoenix would bite him.
I tried.
Honestly to God, I tried.
The Farmer-In-Law resisted every effort I made to show him how friendly my dogs are. I really think Phoenix’s feelings were hurt when his waggy-tail, squinty-eye approaches were rebuffed, often with angry yelling and waving arms and stomping feet. That will turn away cattle. It does not turn away malinois. I tried telling the Farmer-In-Law he WAS going to get bit if he came onto our property and acted aggressively toward the dogs. I tried telling him the dogs saw that as threatening behavior, that if he stood still and talked to them quietly, they would be his friend.
“Those dogs bite,” was all he had to say.
There was no changing his damn fool stubborn mindset. I learned to pick my battles and when to walk away. If he was around the place, I simply kept the dogs away from him. Jamie will be 14 this summer. Phoenix is 6. Neither of them ever bit the Farmer-In-Law, in spite of being given many chances over the years. Ironically, the Farmer’s mom LIKES my dogs. She tells me they are beautiful and “awfully big” and “kind of wild.” But she pets them and laughs at them and is appropriately amazed by the things they can do.
Life goes on. Spring planting season is just around the corner. I know the Farmer will miss his dad desperately as he heads to the field. Even after retiring (euphemism for “still works 12 hours a day but now gets a Social Security check, too) the Farmer-In-Law was an active part of our farm. Over the last few years, as the cancer started to take its toll, I’ve inherited some of his jobs. THAT is a column in itself.
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