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Travels with Dogs

Michael Baugh CPDT-KA, CDBC

I’ve set off across the country a few times now. I gathered up my things, and packed them with my sense of self. It was always for a job; that’s the way it was working in TV news. I’d rent a truck, cram everything in and tear out. It was always a quick move with a bunch of stuff cast aside, stuff I wanted to forget, emotional stuff. I set off on my own, again and again, leaving home, looking for home. Of course I wasn’t really on my own. I left people behind. The dog always came with.

Juno made the last two moves with me, the delicate blond golden retriever I first met

in the front seat of my car. My partner at the time came into the newsroom in St. Louis to tell me he’d found the “most perfect golden retriever ever.” He was more right than either of us knew. He’d left her in the parking lot, in the car, balled up on the front seat, nose tucked to tail, fast asleep. When I saw her I let out a long sigh, and smiled. She looked up at me, bleary eyed, just 8 weeks old. Two years later we’d leave the partner who brought me Juno. He’d follow us to Cleveland and four years after that we’d leave him again. I’m sorry for that, for the pain we caused. My heart belonged to a dog, and a life I would never find except in the journey with her.

I’ve thought about Juno and St. Louis a lot recently. My colleague from those days, Jean Whatley, is traveling across the country with her dog, Libby. She’s writing, snapping photos and rolling video of the adventure for her blog

(www.offtheleashroadstories.com). She tells her own story much better than I ever could. Still, there are themes: regret, reflection, the seeking and hope for redemption. These things resonate so deeply and wake me at night. What now? What’s all this about? Why this time, these people? Why me? I’ve got to get out of here. I have to go. Now. Don’t forget the dog.

I worked with Jean in St. Louis at a TV station that would eventually shut down its news department. I was in the first round of layoffs. The news director invited me to sit. I refused and stood stone-faced. He told me my contract was not being renewed but that I could finish out the remaining 6 months. It was an easy sentence compared to today’s layoffs. It was still the worst thing that had happened to my fragile ego thus far in my life. I went home to Juno and cried, deep wracking gasp-for-breath sobbing. She looked at me like I was an idiot, but in my state I saw it as love. In the movie version I say this next line aloud to Juno. In real life I just thought it. I will never again depend on a company or a boss for my sense of self worth or our survival. I promise. That was the moment I decided to become a professional dog trainer. “And, damn it Juno, you’re going to help me.” That part I really said.

We loaded up the truck and moved to Cleveland, me and Juno rolling across the Mississippi River Bridge. It may have been the same route Jean took to Chicago when she set off with Libby. I don’t know. I was on my way to another TV job and to start a dog training company. Jean – I think she’s got a book in her. I wonder if maybe it’s mine. It’s funny how good stories work out like that. We all have a share of them, the big questions, and the epic quests for self and how we fit in. What’s it about and why me? If you’re a traveler, you load up a car and go. The answer’s down the road, I suppose.

Juno did help me become a dog trainer, a pretty good one. We moved again together, this time to Houston for another TV job. The best tales have little twists like that, don’t they? We met Tim, my partner. Then, a short time later I came to my senses and decided to leave TV again.

That was right before Juno left us. It was cancer. We laid her down on the cool wood floor under the piano where she loved to listen to Tim play. The vet had come to our house to help her along. She relaxed and looked up at me, bleary eyed, 11 ½ years old. I let out a sigh. You really are the most perfect golden retriever ever.

Juno and I logged a lot of miles together, lots of cities, and adventures. But our real journey wasn’t about travel at all. I wonder if that’s what it’s like for Jean and Libby out finding themselves in America. For me, it turns out the journey was about where Juno was taking us without ever leaving my side. It was about finding my better self in the reflection of her eyes, the one worthy of love even when I was acting like an idiot. It was about learning to stay put, to draw people near and dare to love them the way Juno loved me. Yes, it was about big questions, but it was about the little questions too. Who are you? What’s your story? Do you want to share the path for a while? And, by the way, have you met my dog?

The Time for Truth

Michael Baugh, CPDT-KA, CDBC

There are few things more controversial in the dog world than this plain-spoken statement. You don’t have to use intimidation, pain or fear to train a dog. It is, of course, the truth. We have century-old behavior science to back it up, hard evidence from dogs and dozens (if not hundreds) of other species. Still, if you put the idea out there people will balk. Humans are, in so many ways, a punishing species focused squarely on what is bad and how to “correct” it. So many trainers still use fear and pain as a first choice in handling dogs. Others fall back on it for “certain dogs” or “harder cases.” They defend their positions with the fiction there will be “a case in which the dog’s life is at stake.” Some dogs, they say, need to be punished. They use more acceptable words like “firmness” and “discipline.” The irony is that we won’t tolerate abuse of dogs in other contexts, but we tolerate it in training. Rescue groups lament the suffering their fur babies have endured at the hands of ignorant former owners. Some even suppose abuse that may have never actually happened. Then these same rescue groups refer their dogs to people who openly and shamelessly brutalize and terrorize dogs in the name of training.

These are the same people, trainers and self-professed dog advocates, who will hurl their anger at the truth. They will ignore the evidence of sound behavior science. They will punish the facts here as they punish dogs, without thought or regard for what is right. Some have already begun typing their fury in response to these words. So be it. This essay is not for them.

This is, instead, for the growing majority of trainers and behavior consultants who understand that the best learning happens in a relaxed, pain-free environment. It’s for those who know that training is about contingencies and attaching value to behavior. This essay is for those intelligent people who’ve already discovered that our relationship with dogs isn’t about who’s in charge; it’s about how we learn to communicate together. They are the people who learn and teach and remember every day that training isn’t something we do to dogs; it’s something we do with them. These words are for the reward-driven, science-based trainers who would never inflict fear or pain on any dog. This essay is for them and it’s an open challenge, a call to action.

Find your voice and be heard. Set your own fear aside. Take solace in knowing that you are not only technically correct in your methods but also morally sound. Stop waiting for change. Make change happen.

There was a time when we thought the best way to eliminate pain-based training was to include it in our ranks, and educate the perpetrators. That time has passed. The Association of Pet Dog Trainers is now peppered with trainers who proudly use shock collars, prong collars and choke chains, trainers who throw things at dogs and shake cans at them, and trainers who all the while call themselves “positive.” They are using The Association brand, founded on creating better trainers through education, and refusing to use that education to better themselves. We must insist that our professional organizations set clear standards that reject pain and fear in training.

There was a time when certification was novel and a choice for the few. Others were satisfied to opt out and rest on their own good reputations and skills. That time, too, has passed. If we do not distinguish ourselves collectively, we will be marginalized summarily. The American Veterinary Society of Animal Behavior recently published it’s “10 Life Threatening Behavior Myths about Dogs.” It’s a handout for veterinarians to give to their clients. Myth #9 is “Oh he has a behavior problem? Send him to a trainer.” The “myth” discourages contacting trainers for help, and instead encourages clients to consult their veterinarians (many of whom have no behavior education). The veterinary community is being encouraged by their own leadership to marginalize our hard-fought expertise and professionalism as mythology. We must insist on certification (if not licensure) within our profession if we are going to insist that other allied professionals recognize us.

There was a time when we were the new age trainers, the soft alternative to “traditional” trainers. That time has passed, as well. We are not the alternative. We are the standard-bearer. There is no more time for ignoring the unacceptable behavior of pain-based trainers. We all know that ignoring what is wrong is not enough to bring about change. We don’t just ignore bad behavior; we starve it. Let pain-based trainers (and those organizations who recommend them) wither in a market in which you flourish. Focus your attention (and the attention of others) on the excellence of your work, and celebrate the means to those ends. You are correct and morally sound. Be heard. Raise the banner high and let it be known that science-based and reward-driven training isn’t one way to train; it’s the way to train both quickly and effectively. You know that is true. We must speak this truth and speak it loudly.

There was a time when we could afford in-fighting and back biting among ourselves. We played at competition with each other to our own demise. Time’s up. In Houston, many of the best reward-driven like-minded trainers in the market meet monthly. We call each other with tough cases and refer to each other freely and frequently. We are competitors and friends. We work hard to secure each other’s success. We also hold each other accountable under a common goal to eliminate the use of fear and pain in the name of training. Our success individually and collectively helps dogs escape horror and brutality. To that end, we must work together; and we do.

I remember a time when the future of dog training seemed assured. Education alone would lead us to a time when all dogs were taught gently and intelligently. The only dog whisperer was Paul Owens, and no one hurt dogs on TV for the sake of infotainment. No one worried about a coming “culture war” in dog training. In time, pain-based training would just go away. All we had to do was wait. That time never came. It won’t, unless we act.

We must reject pain-based training immediately and thoroughly. Reclaim your professional organizations. We must demand professional recognition from ourselves and our peers. Certify and license dog training. We must challenge ourselves to be the standard-bearers of training. Starve out those who frighten and hurt dogs. We must come together. There’s no doing this alone.

These words are for you dear fellow trainers who are kind of heart, intelligent and gentle. These words will bring on attacks, to be sure. Cast them aside. Humans are a hard species, especially when someone speaks out. Nothing is more controversial, it seems, than the truth.

Swim Stella, Swim!

Michael Baugh, CPDT-KA, CDBC

“This dog can’t swim.” That’s what I thought as I watched her struggle, bob and tip in the pond. I was about to jump in the murky water myself when I saw Stella briefly roll onto her back and then right herself. She stepped gleefully to the shore, shook off, dropped her ball, and looked up at me. She had no idea how pathetic she had looked.

Of course, I was concerned. Stella had swum before, albeit briefly. But, this last time was different. Physics failed her. She listed to one side, nearly sank, and then went keel up. She was wholly out of her element, and I’d so wished her element was water. I wanted it badly; I wanted it with every memory of the retriever before her, with every hope of the retriever I dreamt she would become. That was the problem. This wasn’t about me. It was about Stella; and Stella couldn’t swim.

I tried to get my brain around it. Maybe it really was bad physics. Stella’s chest is unusually deep and her waist is unusually small. She’s narrow, very narrow. She’s tall and long, unnaturally so. Her face and coat say retriever, but the rest of her says whippet or Italian greyhound. Okay if I’m going to be brutally honest, if you catch her at the wrong angle the whole package screams “cartoon dog.” Maybe her body just wasn’t built for water; maybe she was too lean, too spindly. Maybe she just couldn’t swim.

When my heart’s breaking, I write. So, I wrote some veterinarian friends of mine. No, they said. There’s nothing wrong with Stella. She is quirky beautiful and fully buoyant. I wrote to a local dog swim coach (who knew?) and she said the same thing. Some dogs are naturals, others are not. Stella can learn. She can swim.

I can’t explain what happened next. Sometimes there’s no way to fix a thing set askew. Then again, sometimes there’s no holding back a thing intent on setting itself right. Stella’s new coach is an affable woman in the middle of life, with an easy smile and a gentle feel for a dog’s spirit. She welcomed us to a long glistening pool in the early light of day. “Does Stella like toys?” she asked. “Tennis balls” I answered. The rest was unstoppable. It was the simple magic of letting things happen, letting go, swimming with the current of the moment.

Stella waded into the pool for her ball, and brought it back. On the second throw, she leapt across the shallow slope into the deep. Stella’s head slipped under and then popped up high in the water, a bow splashing and awkward, and a stern dragging too low. Her coach moved with deft purpose, the subtle speed of a woman who knows her craft. She righted Stella’s hips, bringing them level to withers just below the water’s crest. Stella sailed with ease back to the shallows and out. She dropped the ball and looked back at what she’d swum.

222531_224371824265357_107851415917399_539116_2541228_n — courtesy: Rummy's Beach Club

I threw again. Again she leapt and swam. Again, and again Stella’s body stretched, and her head skimmed the break where water meets air. Her legs tucked naturally, fronts propelling, backs adjusting for balance. She used her thick retriever tail like a rudder. Stella leapt and swam. She moved with ease and grace, ball firmly in mouth, eyes gleaming in the morning sun, nowhere to be but here, nothing in mind but now. Stella leapt again and then swam some more. She panted and pushed hard against the water, a wake behind her. The air was sweet with the smell of wet dog and abandon. I moved up beside her and kissed her cheek. I would have loved her the same no matter, but oh how I love my water dog.

We stayed on like that until we were both soaked through, swimming together.