Let me recount my first showing experience way back in 1990. I had a lovely Rottweiler puppy named Maura. So convinced was I in her superiority that at the tender age of six months, I decided she was ready for her first show. Since I was already a full-time dog trainer, I confidently entered her in puppy conformation and obedience.

First: conformation. This is when the judge looked at my dog’s general appearance, including body style, eyes, ears, teeth and girlie parts. I had taught Maura to stand without me propping her up, and she stacked rather nicely, with back legs extended behind her and head held straight. I stood there with a loose leash, waiting for the accolades I was sure would be coming our way. All went well until the judge, a no-nonsense woman in a powder-blue pantsuit, cupped her hand under my puppy’s aforementioned girlie parts. My cute little Rottie let out something between a belch and a growl that only lasted a second, but I felt it resonate all the way up the leash. The judge paused, cocked her head and cupped between Maura’s back legs again. I actually coughed loudly to try and cover up any sound that may come from the puppy’s mouth. The judge  looked balefully in my direction and moved on. OK, I thought, onto the obedience ring, where we’d really shine.

Next: obedience: This was my wheelhouse. I had this. Maura was young, but I had lots of time to work with her and she knew her commands. She flew through the easy stuff: Sit, Come and Stay. Then came the off-leash Heel, where she was required to match my pace exactly, turn with me, and sit when I stopped. She did me proud until a full-on fight broke out five feet from us between two Briards. This is a breed that looks much like cousin It from the Addams family: we assume they have eyes but they are hidden behind lots of straight hair. Maura jumped out of the way, but in dog show land, this was no excuse for not staying in formation.

We still had the last obedience exercise to show off: the down-stay.  In this exercise, the dogs are lined up about three feet away from each other and asked to lie down by their handlers. Then the handlers leave and helplessly observe from about twenty feet away. My Maura was placed between a mastiff puppy, all floppy legs and heavy head, and a peppy cocker spaniel puppy. The three minute wait is an eternity in the dog show world. Witness what happened during this seemingly brief period: A lab puppy began to whine, and eventually got up and simply left, the handler hustling after the puppy before he got to her car. Another pup, this one a tiny Chihuahua, stood up, walked over to the German Shepherd pup next to her and began to lick the other dog’s ear. The German Shepherd pup groaned happily and laid over on his side. Meanwhile, my puppy was holding her down-stay beautifully until a fly began to buzz around her head. Only I knew that insects of any kind were an intolerable interruption in Maura’s world. Flies must be snapped at repeatedly until caught, chewed, and loudly hacked up onto someone’s shoe. This is exactly what she did, snapping so precisely and with such gusto that the puppies on either side of her began to creep away so that Maura was soon by herself. In spite of her mission to catch, chew and release, she held the down-stay and completed the exercise. We made haste back to the car before the other handlers could run us out of town. Now

Maura at just eight weeks of age

I watch the handlers at Westminster and feel their pain. Dog showing is no walk in the park!

Mr. Wuzzle caught the eye of a dog talent scout.

Dogs on television or in movies are a marvel to watch. They seem to ‘act’ on their own, with no visible help or cues from anyone, but this is not magic. These dogs know how to take cues from a distance, often with only hand signals. The camera only shows a limited view, and the handler is right there on the set just off camera, asking for commands and tricks.

Consider Mr. Wuzzle, a canine actor in the mid-eighties that was discovered on the street in Manhattan by a dog talent scout. In the heyday of big corporate advertising budgets and fast-talking ’Mad Men’ in slick suits. Mr. Wuzzle became the official spokesdog of Gaines burgers and biscuits, getting primped  in front of the camera like a spoiled supermodel.

If your dog is a people-pleaser and a treat vaccum, you can start working toward his debut with these tips:
Target training- teach your dog to ‘Touch’. I like to use a Post-it pad in my palm. (Later, we’ll tear a Post-it off the pad and place it on another object we want the dog to touch.) Now place a few meaty or cheese treats on a table or counter. Offer the pad about twelve inches from your dog’s nose, and say, “Touch!” He should be curious enough to bring his nose to it. Immediately say, “Yes!” and place a treat right in his mouth. Do this several times until he is reaching for the Post-it. He may try to skip that step and just stare at you for treats, but wave the Post-it pad at least twelve inches away from him until he touches it. Be careful not to push it up to his nose; he must reach out for it. After five or six successful touches, stop for now and pick it up later the same day, always before a meal when he is hungry.
Distance work- Brush up on your basic commands and then try them from farther away. Tie your dog securely to a tree or post and walk out in front of him about six feet, so the tie is behind him. Ask for a simple “Sit”. Help him comply by sweeping one hand up from your thigh to about your eye level. Praise him but don’t move toward him. Try the “Down” command by doing the opposite. Instead of bringing your hand up, bring it down to your ankle level.
Hand signals- Start with a simple, “Watch!” command. Grab a tasty treat and let your dog have a sniff. Say, “Watch” and bring that hand up to your face and point to your nose. When he looks, lightly clap your hands together up at your chest level and give him the treat. Do this twice and on the third try, do it silently. 

Now, try to combine the distance work concept with the hand signals. Tie your dog and walk about eight feet out in front of him. Ask for “Watch” silently, with only your treat-filled hand pointing up to your nose. If he looks, smile and clap quietly. Move in and treat him.

Stay tuned for the next post, when we will take these concepts and teach two camera-ready tricks. I’ll also give you advice directly from a New York animal agent. In the meantime, keep your practice sessions short and sweet, and your attitude happy. Soon your little wage-earner could get his fifteen minutes, or more.

Let's walk the walk

Other studies have shown benefits of dog ownership to include reduced stress and lowered blood pressure. Interaction with animals has been shown to lessen symptoms of depression, too. All this adds up to a tail-wagging trainer that melts off extra calories and can put a smile on your face.

Taking a walk with your dog might seem like a chore, but a simple walk can unleash benefits you haven’t even considered. Studies have shown that dog owners get more exercise than non- dog owners, and benefit from lower blood pressure and cholesterol levels. Walking reduces stress, and provides social benefits, too.

I see the benefits of dog-human interaction every day in my training practice. Your dog is a built-in exercise machine. Dogs should be walked two to three times per day, which releases endorphins and increases circulation for dog and owner, and burns calories. Leash walking keeps your dog calmer at home, too.

There are social benefits, too. Often, when I am out training with a client and dog, people will approach and start a conversation. We’ve even made play dates with other dog owners.

Dog parks are great places to meet like-minded dog owners, but don’t just plop on a bench. Keep moving to work off calories and stress.

The recently completed PPET study (People and Pets Exercising together) conducted at Northwestern Memorial Hospital concluded that dog owners and their dogs can successfully lose weight together. The study found that dogs provided support and motivation, and even initiated scheduled walks. And exercising with your dog is not limited to just walking. Take a training class in obedience or agility to get you both moving. If you are in a mellow mood, consider Dog Yoga, or Doga, for a new-age, touchy-feely activity you can both enjoy.
Just keep your dog’s tail away from the sandlewood incense.

To Grandmother's house we go!

You love Aunt Jane, but you know the source of that yellow stain on your area rug originated from her beloved Fluffy last Easter. After all, he looked guilty when you pointed it out. Aunt Jane did not.

Make some preparations that will smooth out the ‘ruff’ spots when welcoming four-legged visitors.

1. Puppy-proof the guest room. Take up that area rug and replace it with a large bathmat. Place a folded blanket on top for extra luxury. Fluffy will be comfortable there and sends the message that the dog should not sleep on the bed. And, it’s all washable.

2. Provide a containment system. A gate or large crate to keeps Fluffy in the guest room if you all decide to go out to dinner or a movie. Leaving a dog loose in an unfamiliar house can set off separation anxiety, and he may chew your best couch pillows or scratch at the door in frustration.

3. Deliver some pet perks. Place dog bowls in the room, one brimming with fresh water, plus a chew bone and a treat or two. The dog’s owner will be touched and you’ll have a furry friend.

4. Give the dog ample exercise and places to relieve himself. A tired dog is a contented dog, but be prepared to grab the leash yourself if the dog’s owner is busy telling those same stories you heard last year. Heck, going on a walk with Fluffy gives you a chance to ditch all that togetherness for a few minutes and commune with nature.

5. Encourage good canine manners by leashing the dog indoors. This keeps him under the watchful eye of the handler and prevents exploring (and urine marking).

6. If your human visitor refuses to observe a few simple rules and thinks their dog’s rowdy behavior is ‘cute’, keep in mind the pet is not at fault. Take the owner aside and have a friendly chat. You may encounter a deaf ear, however, as advising pet parents can be like giving advice on child rearing: it may simply be ignored.

Skinny, smelly and happy on day 1

I usually went the same way to work each day, straight east on Webster Street just five blocks from my house. The dogs would hear my car pull up and undertake raucous barking that shook the walls. That particular day I left early and decided to treat myself to a bagel and coffee, which took me the other way, north two blocks to Fullerton and then east. Timing is everything, and as I approached my turn I spied a tall and regal-looking Rottweiler trotting up the sidewalk, on busy Clybourn Avenue, head high and leashless. My smile soon straightened itself out when I could see no human belonging to him. A few briefcase-toting commuters headed to the train gave a wide berth to this imposing presence in their midst. I crossed several lanes of traffic to turn after him, and because he was making good time, I zoomed ahead and parked. My Rottweiler, Maura, sat up straight in the back seat and made disapproving noises when she noticed the change in our routine.

I locked the car and looked back down the sidewalk. I saw not a strong and healthy wayward pet but an extremely thin, cloudy-eyed dog busily inhaling a piece of moldy bread from the filthy gutter.

I swallowed and approached slowly, body turned sideways and hand extended.

“Hi, big guy! Hey, sweetie!” No response, just sniffing the gutter for crumbs. His fur lay matted on his body in clumps. This dog had been on his own for some time.

I called him again, louder, but still nothing. Was he just ignoring me? I realized I had the bagel bag still in my hand. If he was as starved as he looked, he’d go for this in a big way. I waved the bag back and forth and his nose came up twitching. He saw the movement of the bag and looked at it, startled, then up at my face. He hurried over to me, eyes wide, and I saw his short tail moving steadily like a metronome. Left, right, left, right. His gaunt, gray face looked almost happy as I tore a huge piece off and dropped it  down his throat without preamble. He was too frail to jump into the car but wagged at my dog when she gave him a good sniffing.

I locked the car and the three of us ambled the two blocks to my training school and were welcomed with mind-numbing barking. I looked at the new dog and noticed that his eyes were scanning the room but his ears did not lay back in reaction to the sound. I made him a bed in a large crate and put him in the office room by himself. He smacked his lips repeatedly at the sight of a brimming bowl of water and a large lump of canned food. He dove in and I got to work in the back.

Ninety minutes later I slid the heavy steel door and peeked into the front office. He was down and on his side, looking deflated and limp. I called him, and then clapped my hands loudly. After a terrified minute, I noticed his chest slowly expanding and contracting with each deep breath. His funky scent filled my nostrils. I touched the cage and wiggled it slightly. The startled dog nearly leaped up, eyes wide, but as he stood and blinked at me, the smile broke out on his face and his tail did the left, right, left thing again. He leaned against the side of the metal cage heavily, causing it to list and clank but he didn’t seem to care.

I dialed my husband and took a big breath when he answered. It all came out in a rush:
“I found an old, skinny Rottweiler on the street and I’m keeping him!”

Minutes later he arrived at the school and helped me bathe the dog. The fur came out in handfuls and all the ribs showed prominently, but the tail did the metronome thing the entire time. His old legs wobbled in the rinse cycle and we laid him on a towel in the sun. The over-ripe smell was still there, and I tried to inspect one ear only to find it nearly glued to his head with pus and mucous. We wrinkled our noses and carefully cleaned it with tons of gauze, worried about his reaction. The dog merely grunted and leaned into the pressure, one leg reflexively kicking.

Back in his new digs, he charmed customers picking up their own dogs at the day’s end. Comments like, “Oh, what a handsome guy!” and “What a sweet guy!” caused his tail to beat time, but only when he made eye contact. We did some very non-scientific experiments to determine his hearing capabilities. We shook a box of biscuits, rang the doorbell and dropped an encyclopedia covering dog maladies (including deafness) on our concrete floor. No reaction. It hardly mattered. He knew how to make noise. After a week of learning our feeding schedule, he would make his needs known with head lifted and big, resounding barks, one at a time in a rhythm with his metronome tail. We’d make serious faces and shake a finger to discourage him, but he’d just smile broadly and wag his left, right tail. We went on adventures to the beach and forest preserve, and if he trotted off to investigate a scent, my husband or I would race ahead of him to wave him down.

He acquired his name three days into his tenure with us when a couple with four children came in to see the training school. They ooed and aahhed and I popped the latch on his cage so he could greet them. I gave my cautionary tips about proper greeting etiquette, but they ignored me and instantly surrounded the dog until all I could see was feet. I went around to his front end, ready to rescue a stressed dog but saw only closed eyes and a rapturous grin.

I briefly recounted his story. One of the kids exclaimed, “He’s such a nice guy!” His mother smiled at me.

“What’s his name?” she asked.

“Guy”. It fit him perfectly.

My husband was not keen on getting another dog, but I began to quietly look around. Volunteering at local shelters was a habit of mine, and I sought a high-drive, lean and leggy type that could be a real show-off for training demonstrations. Something fast and intense that would need exercise and a structured environment to thrive.

Then, the news broke. Michael Vick, then quarterback of the Atlanta Falcons, was arrested for dog fighting. Not just dog fighting, but for running such a large operation on his Virginia property that the sheer acreage covered more ground than some Civil War battles, and for killing his unwanted dogs in hideous ways.

These news stories attracted comments from dog lovers that advocated creative and extreme forms of retaliation for the man who claimed these were “immature acts”. Dog lovers everywhere had that wild, thousand-yard stare, and cutting one off in the supermarket checkout line was instantly regrettable.

I wandered into our local Humane Society later that same week, where Vick’s arrest had everyone on edge. It was unusual to see so many puppies in the adoption room, and I eyed a fox-faced, dainty mix. But there was a new dog there, chesty as an Oktoberfest barmaid and clearly no puppy. You could serve dinner on his broad head. His white bib featured lopsided gray dapples, and he stamped his feet and smiled broadly when I walked in. From across the room, I could see he had big, round eyes, one partially blue, like an oversized, variegated marble. It did not take a breed expert to see he was some kind of ‘bully’ mix; a pit bull, bull terrier or American bulldog, and with a crazy eye to boot. This type of dog was in the spotlight, and not in a good way, because of the Vick case.

A shelter employee walked through and we chatted for a few. I assumed that people would line up to help this type of dog now, but the employee set me straight.

“Nobody is looking at him. Except, of course, the people that should not have him.”
To punctuate this, three young men strolled in, their pants belted across their crotches and tent-like shirts hanging to mid-thigh. As if auditioning for a Guy Ritchie movie, they sported chains, tattoos, shaved heads and one had an enormous gold marijuana leaf banging his chest from an oversized gold chain; perhaps a stoner’s ode to Flavor Flav. The employee rolled her eyes and hastily left. The dog danced and wagged at this intimidating group, and they cooed at him through the chain link of his run. The smaller dogs in the other runs sat back on their haunches and eyed these guys suspiciously, but not the big dog.

“He looks game!” one of them exclaimed. I turned on a big smile.

“Looking to adopt? Lots of great choices here.”

“Is he fixed?” asked Flavor Flav guy, looking me up and down.

“Of course,” I assured them. “The overpopulation of these breeds is what is killing them.” I was about to quote some statistics about pit bulls in shelters, but they walked away in disgust.

The employee came back. “Our standards for adopting these breeds are so strict, it will be nearly impossible to him to get out”.

I was acquainted with the interim shelter director, an affable and knowledgeable guy who was a valuable part of our Hurricane Katrina pet rescue team from two years earlier, when we all went to the Gulf coast and sweated like coal miners in 100 degree heat for a week. I complimented him on putting this breed of dog up for adoption, when many shelters would be reluctant to do so.

“Crazy story”, he said, leaning his large and muscular frame back in his chair. “Guy comes in to give him up, asks for the director, so they call me over. He drops at my feet, sobbing, and begs for the dog’s life. Tells me the dog is sweet, never abused, family pet, blah, blah. I assure him we will give him every chance, and he leaves. The dog is so upset that he escapes his run twice, and each time it takes us over an hour traipsing through the back forty to catch him.”

We discussed his chances for adoption in a room full of cute puppies and concluded he would be there awhile.

“This Vick thing doesn’t help either”, he said. “People assume he is a problem dog, so they pass him by.”

I offer to take the dog home for one night, train him, socialize him with neighbors, and write a story about him to put in the ‘featured dog of the day’ area.

“What’s his name?” I ask.

“Kilo. But we changed it to ‘Kudos’.”

Ah.

‘Kudos’ rode home with me, calmly snuffling out the window. I called my husband with the plan, and his sigh was answer enough.

The dog really had his day at my house. He met neighbors, kids, a dog or two and took it all in stride, even posing for pictures. My plan was to show his ability to fit in with a loving family and all that entails. That night, he placed his massive head on my husband’s knee as his eyes drooped.

“You know”, Mark mused, “if I was looking for a dog, this would be the type of personality I would like”.

The door had cracked open, and ‘Kudos’ had wedged one paw in.

As promised, I took him back the next day armed with photos and a story in bold type. The staff put these on a large easel and featured ‘Kudos’ in the lobby for a week. I went back the next Saturday.

“Anyone looking at him?” The answer was negative. I informed my husband at home and got a thoughtful grunt. This went on for two more weeks and I saw the dog acquire some stress around his eyes and shed a few pounds. The director asked me to foster him again, and I agreed.

At home, the dog moved in as if it had been forever, and my husband began to pet his strong head when he thought I wasn’t looking. ‘Kudos’ wisely targeted Mark for cute displays of play and affection, and made us both smile. My wheels began to turn. I believed I could change people’s minds about these breeds because of my status as a dog trainer and good relations with news reporters. I began to throw these hints in Mark’s direction.

Three days later, Mark was taking a walk toward the beach and encountered our street’s sweet, elderly couple, the Wilson’s, moving slowly and carefully in the noon sun.

“Hey, we met your new dog!” the man told Mark. His wife beamed.

“Oh, no”, said Mark. “We’re just fostering him temporarily.”

After a short and awkward silence, the man straightened up a bit and cleared his throat.

“Mark, we may be of very advanced age, but we are not so old and decrepit that we don’t know that is your new dog.” Mrs. Wilson nodded and beamed.

Mark came into our house in a rush, slightly out of breath.

“Hey, the Wilson’s’ think ‘Kudos’ is our new dog!” he scoffed.

Another awkward silence. I willed my lip to tremble and eyes to mist.
I didn’t have to say a word.

“Oh, man.” Mark’s shoulders slumped.

“You won’t regret it!” I exclaimed. ‘Kudos’ wagged and danced and that was that.

I hurried back to the shelter and informed the director that I’d like to adopt ‘Kudos’. He gaped at me.

“You’re not pulling my leg?”

I laughed and assured him I was in my right mind. He flipped through the adoption papers and tossed about fifteen pages of releases, insurance forms, lengthy questionnaires and the like.

“Just sign and put your address here, I’ll fill in the rest.” Before I left, ten or twelve staff members came out to hug me, and then they hustled me out as if I might change my mind.

After much training and socializing, ‘Kudos’, renamed ‘Mac’ as befitting his manly countenance, became a model citizen, certified by the AKC and later becoming a TDI certified Therapy Dog. During visits to nursing homes, he rests his heavy head in the laps of wheelchair bound residents and stays that way as long as they wish it. So much for the intense ball of dynamite I had been seeking, but we’d soon find out that ‘Mac’ was fully capable of warp speed. More on his first days with me in my next post.

Australian cattle dog- shelters often feature purebreds for adoption

Doggy daycare was hot. News channels beat a path to my training school, microphones thrust into inquisitive canine faces. A few reporters asked quasi-serious questions about the business side of dog training and daycare while others climbed into crates and panted for the camera. It soon occurred to me to use these fifteen minutes of fame to achieve positive change.

This phrase, ‘achieve positive change’, was a favorite of the new Chicago Animal Control director, Dr. Gene Mueller. The cavernous facility saw up to 30,000 animals come through each year, and before Dr. Mueller arrived, the vast majority did not leave through the front door. The new director was a breath of fresh air and made his mark early in his tenure. He welcomed volunteers, reached out to rescue groups, filled the adoption rooms with dogs and cats and held staff accountable. I promised him a TV spot on a popular Morning Zoo style news show, hosted by leggy and lovely anchors who were sharp as tacks and energetic as thoroughbreds, along with a goofy weatherman and a macho sports guy. Woe to the slow-witted guest operating on less than five cups of coffee.

I selected two dogs from the shelter to join us on the air; an Australian cattle dog with a sleek black mask and a very large and hairy mutt with a wolfhound head and a kind, open face. They would grab the viewers’ attention and take some heat off of a very nervous but excited Dr. Mueller.

We arranged to meet at the studio at 5:30AM. My assistant nimbly handled both dogs, armed with deli meat stuffed into a soggy pocket. I sat in the make-up chair, primped by pros and loving every minute. Dr. Mueller leaned in, rubbing his eyes.

“They really tape this early?” he asked sleepily. The make-up girl blinked at him as he wandered off in search of coffee.

My stomach clenched when I realized I had not told him it was a live show. My thoughts raced. Maybe it won’t be obvious. Maybe the anchors will have mercy. Maybe a meteor will crash into the set and save us from ruin. I stood up and looked at my fierce and fabulous reflection.

“It will be fine”, I told myself.

Five minutes later we were standing offset peering around a black curtain, watching the weather forecast. Dr. Mueller was shifting from foot to foot and talking to himself, but otherwise holding his own. At the commercial break, the producer flew over to us and whispered importantly.

“We’re live in three minutes”, she punctuated this with three fingers held inches from our faces.

“Let’s keep the energy up!” she hissed, and darted away.
I smiled at Dr. Mueller. His lips were moving, but no sound came out.

“It will be fine”, I soothed, and patted his clammy hand.
The producer ushered us on set. The anchor greeted us warmly. My assistant passed both leashes to me and I arranged the dogs so they would face camera. The director began his countdown.

“Five, four…

I squeezed Dr. Mueller’s arm hard until his head swiveled my way.

“Positive changes, community involvement, open operation”, I intoned, reminding him of our talking points. He blinked and nodded.

“Three, two…”

My assistant waved the deli meat and the dogs perked up.
Dr. Mueller’s head inclined toward mine.

“I think I’m having a colitis attack,” he rasped.

“One”, the director pointed at us, the lights clicked on, and camera rolled.

Three minutes later, we were all patting ourselves on the back. Dr. Mueller spoke easily, I chimed in on point and the dogs behaved. The producer herded us out and congratulated us on a great segment. The anchor waved at Dr. Mueller and he blushed like a schoolboy.

I drove the dogs back to the shelter and sheepishly entered Dr. Mueller’s office. He grinned and held up a stack of phone messages, some congratulatory and many looking to adopt the dogs on TV.

“Now… I just want to know one thing”, he said gravely. I braced myself.

“When are we going on TV again?”

Let me get that crumb off your nose

The Big Snow had started, but my training school was toasty warm, thanks to the ancient stand-up furnace hulking in the corner, nicknamed The Beast.

Over eight inches of snow fell throughout the day. Overly-stimulated meteorologists gleefully predicted up to ten inches of accumulation.
Temperatures fell after sunset, and I tucked the dogs in, patted The Beast and drove home carefully in my small sedan. I had taken to feeding some birds under the train viaduct on these barren nights. My car slid to a stop along the curb and I got out with my seed. Under the viaduct, bumpy black ice obscured the ground, but I spread the seed and the birds eyed me from above, hungry and ready to pounce. As I turned to leave, a grayish shape on the ground seemed to move. I peered at it, and it rolled halfway over. ‘Rat!’ I thought and leaped back, bonking my head on the iron supports. I looked again. A small head stretched out of the frozen shape toward the seed. A glossy black eye turned slowly upward toward me. It was a pigeon, completely encased in snow and ice, unable to walk or fly, but still alive.

I scooped him up in a dry towel I kept in the trunk and slid back toward the car, already showing a layer of white. We made our way back to the training school, just two blocks away but a ten minute crawl in these conditions. Inside, I put the pigeon on a dry towel inside a small dog crate near The Beast. The ice was sliding off of the bird, but he was not perking up. ‘At least he won’t freeze to death’, I thought.
My favorite veterinarian had a soft spot for pigeons, but would not be available until tomorrow. I set the bird up with a small bowl of water and a handful of seed. Outside, it took fifteen minutes of shoveling to get my wheels to turn, and I made the five block trip home in half an hour, stopping twice to help others push out of drifts.

Sunrise showed over a foot of snow on the ground. Driving was useless on side streets, so I put on my big boots and trudged to work. No amount of snow was too much for my furry charges, and they leaped and snuffled their way through the white fluff with total abandon. I always let the larger dogs out first to tamp down the snow for the wee ones, but even with that precaution, I scooped two terriers and a poodle mix out of a drift. They came up snorting and shaking off the snow, and dove right in again.

I finally got up the courage to go and look at the frozen pigeon. As I approached the crate, I heard a light scraping sound, and I peered in. There he was, strutting fearlessly over a sopping towel looking confident and bright-eyed like Sam McGee, finally warm and toasty. He eyed me with expectation and turned in a circle, as if to show off his robust health. Only husks remained of the seed. To celebrate this resurrection, I dubbed him ‘Mr. Freeze’ and offered him a small piece of my bagel.

The weather warmed a bit over the next few days and my veterinarian suggested we release Mr. Freeze before he became too accustomed to free meals. I had moved him to the front lobby, where he craned his neck to spy on new dogs and people coming in. He showed no fear of curious canine noses, fixing them with his intense gaze. His feathers glowed with soft mauve, pink and grey tones that shimmered as he groomed himself.

I took his crate out to the yard and opened the door wide. He poked his small head out, darting his eyes over the snow-packed earth in front of him, and then retreated into the crate. I had expected a mad rush to freedom, but clearly, this was not on his agenda. I placed the crate on the ground, door swung open, but Mr. Freeze backed up as far as he could get. Even tipping the crate didn’t work, he just held on tight to his homemade perch, a small curtain rod stuck through the bars. Then, I brought out the big guns. He cocked his head at the sound of the brown paper bag. I pulled out a small piece of bagel and placed it on the ground in front of the crate. He hopped out, grabbed the bagel and then realized his mistake. I quickly closed the door, keeping him out. The bagel dropped from his mouth and he looked at me, betrayed. The guilt washed over me and I was just about to open the crate door, when he flapped mightily and rose straight up to the roof of the building.

“Good boy!” I shouted. Two people passing through the parking lot stared at me and then followed my gaze upward, perhaps thinking I had trained a dog to fly. Mr. Freeze danced on the roof, bobbing his head crazily on his thin neck. Just then, the doorbell rang and I had to go in. He was gone when I went back, and I wondered if I would see Mr. Freeze again. I did not have long to wait.

Two mornings later, I was out with a play group of boisterous big dogs. An agile lab mix led the charge with the others hot on his heels, around and around the small, barren cherry tree that bloomed each July. A loud flapping, close enough to stir my hair, stopped the group and Mr. Freeze landed smack on the ground, and turned a few circles. The hunting breeds knew what to do. Two German shorthair pointers froze in perfect point, the retrievers quivered and the spaniels danced in place, waiting for the crack of gunfire. I tried to shoo him, but he just walked around me, head bobbing and bold as ever. Finally, one of the setters could no longer just set, and charged at the bird. Mr. Freeze flew effortlessly up to the cherry tree and began to preen in a self-satisfied way. I brought him a piece of bagel and began to herd the dogs inside. There, on the roof where he had taken that first freedom flight, was another pigeon, mostly white with a swipe of black on one wing. Mr. Freeze grabbed the bagel bite, rose gracefully in a spiral and landed on the roof next to the other bird. I watched quietly as they canoodled for a moment, and went inside.

Two more times he came and went, always landing in the middle of the yard when dogs were out. He looked healthy and sassy, his feathers shining and his eye boring into me. Then he soared away, joining a small flock heading back toward the viaduct.

"Somebody get me an axe"

The place was an old concrete bunker of a building, where paint was once manufactured and canned. Giant stirring devices had been removed, but the turning gears remained above. A stand-up furnace stood along the wall. A large exposed pipe with vents served to heat the room during the frigid Chicago winters.

Surprisingly, this hideous machine worked well despite a distinct quirk. When it fired up, it made a ‘BOOM’ sound and a flame shot out of the front of the vent. Alarming, I know, but we had all manner of experts in to examine it, clean it, massage it and otherwise pronounce it normal. Still, we gave it a respectful distance. Every spring I sighed with relief that the beast had made it through another winter and blessed my alarms for keeping vigil. My alarms were never tested in ten years of business there, until one day when they were nearly destroyed by the ready axes of our local firemen.

It was mid-morning on a pleasant spring Sunday. I was training a boisterous lab puppy when the piercing ‘WHOOOP, WHOOOP, WHOOOP of the fire alarm went off. I looked around for flames, ninjas, smoke or other interlopers but found no trouble. The phone call to the service was made, but I was told the firemen would be there soon.

“Can’t you stop them?” I asked. The answer was an emphatic, “No” and I heard the approaching sirens as I hung up.

They pulled up with enough manpower and hoses to quench the Great Chicago Fire. I held up my hand.

“I’m so sorry, I think it’s a false alarm.” Axes drooped and their disappointment was obvious. They stomped through anyway in their huge boots looking for any sign of smoke as the dogs barked as these odd-looking men.

“No problem, ma’am,” said the captain with impeccable politeness. I batted my eyes as they filed out and promised to look into it with the alarm company.

About five minutes later, the ‘WHOOOP, WHOOOP’ was wailing again. I cursed and ran to the phone, but the alarm was on override. I waited outside for the full brigade to return. They pulled up in force as a small crowd looked on.

“I’m really sorry; the alarm company said it would be Monday before they can come look at it.”

“OK, ma’am”, but the captain’s smile was strained.

I looked at the alarm box and puzzled the problem. As I shrugged and walked away, it began to scream again. Most of the dogs plastered their ears to their heads to shut out the worst of it, but two huskies and a beagle began to accompany the noise, their noses pointed straight up as if at the moon. The brigade pulled up, same guys, and this time, no smiles.

“MA’AM, WE’RE GOING TO HAVE TO TAKE A LOOK AT THAT BOX,” he shouted over the din. We opened the box together. The captain pressed the Cancel button. Nothing. He pressed it and held it. The ‘WHOOOP, WHOOOP’ continued to laugh at us. Now we had about six dogs howling for all they were worth. He pushed the button harder. Finally, the noise stopped but the howling continued.

“CAN’T YOU…” I took a breath. The howling subsided and I lowered my voice in the now hushed room.

“Can’t you ignore it if it happens again?” I pleaded.

“The law says we have to respond” said the captain wearily. His manners won out, but he clearly wanted to strangle me.

Two more times this nightmare was played out. Axes were raised and the beefiest of the bunch promised to “shut the thing up for good”. I was tempted to let him, but caution prevailed and they shuffled out.

Mercifully, the stupid thing finally did shut up. I glared at the furnace, thinking that somehow it was at fault, but it sat there benignly.

The next day was Monday, and the alarm man came. The culprit was a spider in the smoke detector, spinning a web that caused the detector to trip the alarm. The alarm stopped when the web was completed and the spider took a nap. I insisted the spider be spared and we took it outside in a Styrofoam cup.

Something had to be done about the firemen. I knew the story of the Boy Who Cried Wolf, and had no desire to be thought of as “that nut over by the dog place”. The local bakery made a large sheet cake for me, hand-decorated with a fire engine and Dalmation dog. The baker had depicted me as a cartoon figure in the engine next to the dog, smiling, no less. I could have done without that, but at least the cake would be delicious.

I hauled on a skirt and heels and combed my hair, and carefully drove the heavy cake to the fire station. I was welcomed by a young fireman in front, who grinned and brought me inside. I thought I would just drop it off for the captain and the guys, but was ushered downstairs into their lair. Coming down the steep stairs, I was glad my skirt wasn’t any shorter.

The young fireman announced me with,
“Hey, look at what we got here!” and a dozen heads turned. The captain parted the group, recognized me, and his entire face fell. He clearly associated me with failure, stress, and wasted time. Not so with the others, and I shoved the cake toward the rapidly approaching group of ridiculously handsome men. They cut into it, toasting me with their raised forks, and I apologized again to the captain. He relaxed and we chatted until I could make my exit, intimidated by the low ceiling and high testosterone, but I knew that if I ever needed help, they would make haste, axes at the ready.

Fortunately, the alarms never went off again.

Jim Morgan, the head trainer, was a charismatic and intimidating guy. He would storm through the kennel in his full cammos and boots and glower at his underlings through thick eyebrows. His classes consisted of 10 to 12 mostly female participants, raptly awaiting his next instruction, which was often given at full volume. “Forward!”, he’d bellow. “Right turn!” Feet shuffled and leashes snapped. “Left turn!” Any dyslexic tendencies were immediately exposed. “YOUR LEFT, YOUR MILITARY LEFT!” Frantic adjustments by the dog owners. The dogs adored him and saw right through his bluster. When class ended, instead of slinking off to their cars after the verbal lashing they had received, the women would gather around him and seek his further counsel while their husbands kept a respectful distance.

I worked with Elana Morgan often, a talented trainer and businesswoman in her own right. She wore clean white jeans every day and they were just as clean and white at 6PM, despite working with dogs of all sizes throughout the day. No dog even considered jumping up on this petite and pretty blonde; she gave off that much Alpha vibe. Elana was a pioneer in feeding natural foods, and using Chinese herbs and homeopathic remedies.

These two people gave me a great start and kept on helping me after I opened my own place in 1991. One late afternoon, a client dropped off two tiny Yorkshire terriers to board with me. I had not trained these two and had not seen them before their appointment. The owner left hurriedly in a cloud of perfume, and I bent to say ‘hello’ to my little charges, thinking, ‘how easy is this?’ Both dogs came at me in a rush, teeth clicking and saliva flying. I was surprised but not afraid; remember I had worked with the tough ones at the Morgan’s place. I merely picked up the leashes and said, “Let’s go!” and started to walk out to the yard with them. The smaller of the two slipped right out of the collar and ran into a corner. I rolled my eyes, after all this was a mere annoyance for a lion tamer like myself. I put the other dog in a large crate and went back for the itsy-bitsy one. The dog began to bounce up and down in the corner and barked so much she threw up bile. I felt bad for her and wanted to get her settled ASAP so she could relax. I tried throwing a light leash over her like a lasso, (slipped out like she was buttered) tossing a towel over her and scooping her up, (ouch, little teeth leave big holes) and even tried to herd her into a cardboard box like an escaped gerbil (no go, this thing was quick). I finally had to do it. I had to call my mentors for help, just five days into my independence. They assured me over the phone that it was no trouble, completely understandable, and that Yorkie bites could be very, very bad.

I felt better after hanging up and waited for their arrival. The small

"Bring it!"

menace in the corner glared at me while her friend in the crate yelped her displeasure. Minutes later there was a knock. I opened the door and could not decide whether to laugh, cry or crawl in a hole. There stood Elana and Jim, both in full cammo, Elana in a pith helmet (white) and carrying a snare pole like those used at zoos on reluctant lions. Jim wore hockey gloves so thick he could not have scratched his own nose without knocking himself out.

“Where is the little @#!%!” he roared.  Elana crept slowly around, snare-em pole at the ready. The Yorkie in the corner was very, very quiet.

“OK, guys, I deserve this,” I laughed. Jim walked up to the dog, looked down at it for just a second or two, and the little monster wagged her tail and rolled onto one side. Jim scooped her up and snapped the leash back on, and then did some walking exercises with her as she bounced along happily at his side. From that day on, I used confidence as a training tool. Dogs are such good readers of body language and attitude, and they do want to follow a leader. I also instituted a new policy. Any new dogs had to come by for a brief visit before staying to board.  And, I ordered a snare pole.