Article from The APDT Chronicle of the Dog

"You Saved a Dog's Life Today"

by Michael Baugh

I got in my car and shook off the cold of late fall in Ohio. I was still jumpy from the high of working with an excellent dog. I was euphoric. And I began to cry. One by one, the names were coming to me. I thought of every trainer I'd ever met, every trainer I'd ever read, every trainer who gave a workshop or sat on a panel I'd attended, every trainer who was kind enough to let me observe a class or a consultation. I remembered each name. And with each one, I thought, "Thank you. You saved a dog's life today."

Keefer was my first dog-on-human aggression case. I thought I was a fool for taking it. Normally, I would have turned it down. That's easy to do, by the way. You just say, "No, thank you. I don't really like dogs who bite." But this time I said I'd help. What the heck! There was a time when the idea of standing in a park in a blizzard, cheering because my dog went poopie, seemed pretty absurd. I'm flexible.

The first call came from a local rescue group who had placed Keefer three years earlier. The owners were ready to surrender him because he had bitten their daughter's friend in the face. My eye twitched just thinking about it.

The next call was from the owner, a wonderful woman who had never really wanted a dog. Still, she took on the task of fixing the problem for the benefit of her family. God bless her.

"No, we never expected Keefer to bite. No, he's only done it once. Yes, it only happens in the home. Yes, he even cornered a guest in the bathroom once. And oh, he's growled and barked at strangers from the very first week we've had him."

I was in their driveway on the mobile phone. "I'm going to ring the doorbell and pretend I'm just a regular visitor. You handle Keefer as you normally would. After that, we can chat and talk about treatment." Oh, it sounded so simple. Elegant, even.

Solon, Ohio, is a suburb of fetching homes with smart landscaping, large lovely porches, and welcoming doorways with charming leaded glass. So when Keefer threw himself against the front door, the window refracted his snarling face into a hundred horrifying images. I felt naked with my meager hot dog treats. I rode a wave of nausea that I feared might end in an embarrassing bout of submissive urination.

"Hi, I'm here to help with Keefer."

I guess that's when I heard the first friendly voice whispering in my ear. It was a trainer wiser and more experienced than I who reminded me how appropriate and normal it was to be afraid. Then there was another trainer who reminded me to breathe. Deeply. And then another whose book I clutched in my hand. "Before we start, I'd like to offer this to you on loan. It's the most human-friendly dog book I've ever read. Start with the chapter on fear and aggression."

Things moved quickly. I was handing out information so fresh in my brain I could still remember where it came from. Every name. That woman from the East Coast, telling me it was okay to make mistakes. Recover. Move on. I cracked a joke and we were laughing. I was being clear. They were asking questions. This was making sense.

They brought Keefer out again. Don't forget about barrier aggression. "Just let him go," I suggested. "It's okay."

I taught them a verbal bridge reinforcement. The son was dishing out treats and saying "Yes!" every time Keefer gave him attention. I was four feet away, yawning. The trainer whispering in my ear had an accent.

In a while I was tossing treats to Keefer. "Yes!" And handing them to him. "Yes!" And getting sits and downs and stands. "Yes! Yes! Yes!"

The mom was surprised by Keefer's new attitude and asked me why he was so anxious around strangers. I started to answer when a trainer tapped me on the shoulder. Let's just fix the behavior. "It's really hard to say," I said. "He's been practicing acting a certain way when new people come into his space. Now we're just going to teach him a new way to act. And, at the same time, we're going to show him that strangers coming over always means good things are in store for Keefer." And I sneaked a little pet under Keefer's chin. "Yes."

We were about halfway through our session when the dad offered up the one sentence that made my heart stop and the room spin. He said it in front of everyone. He said it as clearly and calmly as if he were offering me a glass of water.

"You know, you're Keefer's last hope."

There in that frozen moment was Dr. Ian Dunbar. I was in Houston at the APDT conference, and Dr. Dunbar was on the verge of tears. He was telling us how our work could mean the difference between life and death for a dog. Every time we interact with a client, imagine that we're holding a syringe of Euthanol in our hand. Alienate the client, and we risk the client giving up on the dog. Treat the client with respect, share our knowledge, and the syringe is cast aside. And, said Dr. Dunbar, imagine five syringes of Euthanol every time we interact with another trainer. If we fail to treat each other as professionals, we not only lose the opportunity to educate each other but we put the dogs at risk. If we open our doors, share our hearts and minds, and connect with humans and the dogs, one of those five syringes is cast aside.

I remembered every trainer I'd ever met. I remembered every trainer's book, workshop, and panel. I remembered every trainer kind enough to let me observe his or her skill and talent.

Before I left, I gathered up every gift every trainer had ever offered me. Together, they had paved the way for this turning point in Keefer's life. Together, the family and I agreed on a plan of action. We looked for trouble spots and vowed to keep thinking. Progress was at hand. Keefer pushed out a deep sigh. Could he have known?

Mom, Dad, Son, and I made plans to meet again in a week. I passed once more through the welcoming doorway and chuckled at the leaded glass. Cold wind hit me with the sure promise of winter on the way. Keefer brushed up against my leg. He'll see another spring.

I hugged the dog who just two hours ago was screaming for a piece of my face.

"Yes."

Michael Baugh is a dog trainer in Cleveland, OH, a news producer at WKYC-TV (NBC), and a member of the APDT Public Relations Committee.

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