The process dog
Sometimes I think about having a dog that is finished. A dog that I trained a for a while, established routines and rules and boundaries, and beyond that it was just a companion, not a constant challenge. A dog that I can just enjoy without struggle or existential crisis. A dog I train mostly for fun, not to make sure he can survive. Sometimes I think about that kind of dog. I look at people who can just be with their dogs, without safeguarding the entire time. Sometimes I feel bad that I can’t seem to get to that point. It is an interesting dream land, this alternate reality, the finished dog.
To be completely fair, as long as we are at home, Bunny is pretty much exactly that. At home he is the best housemate you can possibly have. He follows, he relaxes, he plays, he entertains, he sleeps through the night, he withdraws when he wants to be alone, and he asks when he wants or needs anything. He is, by and large, a finished dog. He looks splendid and cute, all the time. But at some point, quite often actually, that dog has to go outside, or more accurately, really desperately wants to go outside. Worse, I want to go outside, too. And this is where the problems are, the ones that won’t go away.
We do have walks that are completely enjoyable, calm and focused and with soft interactions. Lots of them actually. Usually these are walks with lots of space and few distractions. Towards the end of those walks, I can do amazing things with Bunny, like, walking on a loose leash through a busy area. I feel connected, like we are a team. Sometimes I forget for a few minutes that all this could change any moment. It could change for a variety of reasons, a large dog coming around the corner, a cat in the bush, the smell of a female dog, a plastic bag with grated cheese on the grass, a man with a bucket, a rabbit jumping up. But mostly it’s the large dogs I’m worried about.
When the freakout happens, it’s too late, and all we can do is just to try to be safe. I can hold him, okay, but I need to be ready. In the worst case, he will bark and lunge and jump with everything he has into the leash, ten, twenty times, until the dog or sheep or deer is gone and his energy drained. My lovely dog turns into a monster. It’s brutal. His mind is completely blank. My mind is completely blank as well. I just hope the leash and the carabiner and the harness holds. And my arms. If not, the real disaster looms. This kind of stuff happens maybe once or twice a week, maybe five or eight times a month. (Update late 2023: While these outbursts still happen, the described worst case has become really rare.)
More often, and less severe, he is lunging just once, after a squirrel or a pigeon or a plastic bag. Or he will just push hard onwards, following a smell or an obsession. It feels like you are attached to a motorcycle. Sometimes I can sense it minutes earlier, when he gets distracted, when our communication fails. When the bond breaks. Sometimes I can prevent it by just staying in touch with him and with the environment the whole time. I’m walking the dog, I’m am with the dog, and nothing else happens in my mind, full concentration all the way. But even that is not a guarantee.
Part of the problem is that Bunny is a malamute. Insane prey drive and same-sex aggression are breed typical. Also, malamutes have their own ideas about things, and tend to value their ideas more than their owners, at least temporarily. Lots of malamutes are never going to be really reliable in the face of distractions. Another part is that over the first two years of his life Bunny has not learned how to cope with the world. Instead, he has learned that the only way to get what he really wants is by forcing it. Most of his issues are really the typical issues of an undersocialised, underdeveloped hyperactive young malemute who is easily overwhelmed by his strong feelings. But he is more than five years old! When is he finally going to grow up?
I know that a lot of dog trainers, if they read this, which I hope they don’t, would immediately offer me a program. Go and do this, it will solve your problem. Or go and do this. Play this game. Use this tool. Make this happen. Run this routine. They would promise solutions for my problems, for Bunny’s problems. Obviously, that’s their business model, so I don’t blame them. I could live without the emotional manipulation that usually goes along with it. And ultimately, the promise is a distraction. I need a process guide, not a trainer.
Half of the dog trainers would try to sell me solutions that are based on intimidation, or on causing discomfort or pain. The other half are trying to tell me that Bunny’s problems will go away if I’m just patient enough with positive reinforcement, and recommend that I keep him away from the distractions until he can cope better. I have seriously considered almost every method that is out there. Many I have tried. Many turned out to be useless for our lifestyle. In many cases, the practical difficulties are overwhelming. Some help incrementally. Some bits I have integrated into our routines. It’s a mix and match approach, without clear philosophy or ethics. Whatever works, I guess. We have to make our own path.
A part of me wants to believe that there is a solution, that I’m just doing something wrong, and that my dog can, eventually, be finished, not just by getting old and slow, but by training. I’m so used to solving problems, in other areas of life, that it seems very difficult to just give up. But another part, probably the more realistic part, is convinced that there is really no easy way out, that this is our life now, and this is what we will have to deal with for the next decade, if he manages to survive for that long. For sure, there will be some improvement, some gradual adjustments, but chances are that my dog will always have serious conflicts with the outside world. There is no getting around that. The process will never end.
It’s not necessarily the life that I wanted, and it’s not what I imagined when I thought about getting a dog. I didn’t imagine sneaking around my own neighbourhood just to avoid a couple of other dogs. I didn’t imagine walking my dog with leash tethered to my waist at all times. I didn’t imagine having to stop a large powerful dog running full force into the leash, with my bare hands, several times a week. I didn’t imagine having to be aware of all details in my surroundings at all times, when I’m outside. Some of it I can easily get used to, some of it is enjoyable on some weird level, some of it is impossible to get used to, especially the violent part of it.
In the process, it is important not to question too much, not to think too hard about consequences and implications, but to just take it step by step, to keep going. I learned that part early on, when I tried to get a degree in physics, while spending my summers trying to cycle up the steepest and longest roads in Europe. Just keep going. Keep adding stuff. The next bend in the road. The next week of seminars. Another bend. Another week. Keep learning. Keep adjusting. Be ready, be flexible, be open, all the way. You have to find a way to enjoy the process itself.
And so, with Bunny, we go day by day. Every day is a new start. Every day is a Universe on its own. There is no destination, no finished dog, just the moment of doing it, one step at a time.
