It’s the next to last class in
June’s obedience training and things are not going well. While the concept of
“sit” and “down” were mastered early on, the “turnabout” and “front sit” remain
elusive (it doesn’t help that I also don’t quite understand those commands).
Seeing us struggling, the instructor, Mike, comes over and tries to help. Since
he has a treat in hand, he’s June’s new best friend, and she jumps excitedly,
breaking the rule of “off.” I watch as he coaxes June into doing the desired
response, trying to remember how it’s done. But when I try, she sits, drops
down, then stands, going through her short repertoire and clearly hoping that
one of them will earn her a “good” and a treat. I sigh and rub her ears. “How
old is she?” Mike asks, and I tell him four or five. “She’s a rescue, right?” I
nod and he looks down at June’s wide, panting grin. “Well, she’s certainly a
happy girl,” and he walks away. I realize in that moment that he isn’t
expecting much from us.
In the short time we’ve been in
class I’ve come to understand that, with rescues, the bar is set pretty low. Although
the dog that Mike uses to demonstrate is also a rescue, she happens to be
mostly Border Collie and is wired to learn and perform. I watch Bella the
Wonder Dog with admiration and a touch of snarky jealousy as she flawlessly
turns, sits, lays down, stays, and walks next to Mike in a perfect heel. He
could tell her to “stay,” leave the room, get in his car, go out for a nice
supper, and return an hour later to find her still sitting there, eyes glued to
the door. I find myself secretly hoping she’ll make a mistake, something that
would indicate she was just a dog like all the other dogs in the room. As I
look from graceful, beautiful Bella to my chunky, funny, stubborn June, I feel
defeated. We will never graduate, and June will never be able to take her American
Kennel Club Good Citizen test and hope to pass. After an exceptionally
frustrating hour, during which numerous liver treats were consumed (too bad
that’s not an AKC event), Mike released us, and we bolted to the door.
I was quiet on the way home, fighting my mood. In the back seat, June panted and sat quietly, looking out the window and occasionally looking my way. “Good,” I murmured when our eyes met, a habit that apparently Mike had successfully taught me (where’s MY treat?). At home, I opened the car door and told June to wait, which she did, while I snapped her leash to her collar. “OK, c’mon,” I gestured, and she jumped out, waiting at my side, and then walked with me to the house. Once inside, I took the leash off and she ran to her water bowl, gulping and slurping as if she hadn’t had a drink in years. Then she collapsed on the kitchen floor panting and grinning wetly at me. “One more class, then we’re done,” I told her, and at the sound of my voice she came over to me and nudged my hand for some pets. As I rubbed her solid body and dandled her floppy ears, I thought about how far we’d come in the two months we’d been together. Walks were no longer dreaded, Ming the cat lived consistently and comfortably upstairs, June knows that when I leave, I’m coming back and no longer shreds the door mat attempting to see where I’ve gone, and she immediately sits and waits for a treat whenever she comes inside after a pee break. We are nowhere near the level of trust and obedience it would take for me to let June off the leash, confident that she would stay with me should a squirrel come along, but I believe she is now fully aware that I am her Person, and this is her Forever Home.
Next week we will (hopefully)
graduate from Basic Obedience and get a certificate and our picture on Facebook,
along with the others: The giant Newfoundland with a deep bark that shakes the
ceiling, the nervous Cairn Terrier who can’t relax, the beautiful blue pit bull
who hangs on his person’s every word, the old retriever who loves to roll over
for belly rubs, and the young black Labrador who dances and pirouettes. And my
June. A dog who has overcome so much in her hard life and is teaching me that
trust and love (and treats) can make all the difference in the world. She is
not a Wonder Dog, but she is a Happy Girl. And I couldn’t be prouder.
