Shut the damn door: lessons in boundaries
Want to know what’s not advisable? House training a puppy in a carpeted first-floor flat. Every time you need to go outside (which is roughly every 40 minutes when the puppy is tiny), you have to put on appropriate clothing and gather together an assortment of items — lead, poo bags, training treats, keys — that are maddeningly easy to misplace. Doing this multiple times a day for several weeks becomes a monumental faff.
When Joy’s housetraining went wrong, I had to clean an ivory coloured, deep pile carpet — bought well before I planned to get a puppy. Joy’s poo was rarely completely solid, so the clear-up wasn’t quick; I’d have to use newspaper, cloths, biological cleaning fluid, the odd kitchen implement. You’ll understand that I was impatient to get her house trained quickly.
What struck me when we finally cracked it was that the way to avoid dealing with dog shit works as effectively for human shit. I don’t mean actual, colon-shaped turd, but any crappy interaction.
When I worked out how to stop being dumped on by my dog, I became clearer about how to stop being dumped on by people.
This didn’t involve the method I’d used for Joy’s other training: rewarding desired behaviour. I thought all I had to do was clap every time she pooed outside, lavish her with praise and dole out high-grade treats. I hoped that if I did this repeatedly, she’d work out what I wanted her to do, and my living room carpet could reclaim its original complexion.
I’ve tried a similar approach with people in my life: done nothing when they did something that left me feeling bad, but remained hopeful that they’d eventually work it out. It’s not a strategy I recommend.
By five months old, Joy was still pooing inside overnight. Her preferred place was the middle of the living room floor. At some point while I was sleeping, she’d make her way from the crate outside my bedroom door to the spot where I practised yoga and leave a pungent deposit for me to deal with the next day.
I complained to colleagues that the morning discoveries were bringing me to the brink: “I cannot deal with handling shit — literally handling shit — as soon as I wake up every day. I just can’t take it anymore.”
One colleague, an experienced dog owner and all-round sage, asked me where Joy was allowed to go at night. I told her she wasn’t allowed in my bedroom, but she was allowed in the rest of the flat.
“There’s your problem. She’s got the run of the place. Puppies have an instinct not to poo near where they sleep. If you limit where she can go, she won’t poo.”
I had nothing to lose by trying. That night, I directed Joy into her crate as normal, but closed the kitchen, living room and bathroom doors, meaning the only space available to her was the hallway.
The following morning, I woke to something familiar but thrilling: normal smelling air. Joy hadn’t pooed in the house.
It wasn’t a fluke. I followed the same routine for the next week, and it continued to work.
Stopping the shit was as simple as closing some doors.
As I reflected on this, I started to think about the power of boundaries. I hadn’t been harsh towards Joy; I hadn’t done anything to her at all. All I had done was reduce the amount of space available to her, and this had led to a powerful change in behaviour.
I wanted to apply this insight elsewhere in my life. How could I start closing doors with people I felt crappy around? I could halt conversations. I could say no. I could leave. I could make parts of myself unavailable.
Boundaries work. I still have to deal with dog shit and human shit on a daily basis, but with strong boundaries, the shit is contained, and therefore much easier to deal with.
If you find you’re dealing with crap on a regular basis, consider how much room you’re giving to the person who’s bothering you.
Getting them to stop dumping on you might be as simple as closing a door.
