Morning Zoo- more stories from 20 years of dog training

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?”

Mr. Freeze, rescued…pigeon??

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.

It’s Alarming- more stories from 20 years of dog training

"Somebody get me an axe"

The early years of my dog training career were filled with activity. I was extremely careful with my furry charges, and opted for state-of-the-art burglar and fire alarms. I lived about five blocks away and figured I could sprint there in an emergency in case my car failed me. There was a tenant in the building on the other side, upstairs, but he was of questionable character (a friend of my landlord’s, also of questionable character) and was definitely not on my speed dial list. In case of fire, he would probably be at fault.

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.

My Dog Training Genesis

This year marks my 20th as a full-time dog trainer. My total immersion began when I worked with a talented couple in Chicago. After just two weeks, I was already working with the growlers, snappers, and biters. Pit bulls? German Shepherds? Dobermans? Nope. The toughest was a Portuguese water dog, ala ‘Bo’ the white house dog.

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.

Dead? Nope, just sleeping

Twenty years ago I took in my first boarder at my training school in Chicago after being officially open for only one day. ’Max’ was a young German Shepherd, all teeth and tail and floppy paws. My place was gleaming with new paint and pristine crates. I had called friends and family to bring their

My first trainee, 'Max'

dogs over so we’d have some warm bodies to show new customers, but that night, the puppy was to be the first to stay over.

I fretted to my husband, “Should we take him home with us?”

“No”, he said, predictably. “Where do we draw the line? He’ll be fine here”.

We had fire and burglar alarms, soft music, night lights, and regular patrols from friendly cops. I made sure the pup was fully exercised and fed, and locked the door at 9:00PM. I tossed and turned that night and woke early, loading my Rottweiler, Maura, into the car and making the 4-block drive to my training school. I opened the door with the key and deactivated alarms, expecting to see ‘Max’ up and prancing in his crate. Massive amounts of adrenalin (the bad kind, not the “gee isn’t this roller coaster a blast” kind) surged hard through me when I saw his recumbent little body in the crate. Laid over on his side, he looked as if the air had been sucked from him. In a word, he looked dead.

“Max!” I half-shrieked, half-sobbed at the unmoving puppy. My dog was instantly by my side. She barked once and Max slowly opened one red eye, stood up gradually like an old basset hound, and stretched lazily.

“Morning already?” he seemed to think. “Is there coffee?”

I hauled him out of his crate and gave him a greeting similar to what Lassie got after pulling Timmy out of yet another well.

The two dogs romped in our big play yard as I tried to regulate my heart rate. I got their food ready and took a couple of phone calls. ‘Max’ was my first paying client and I intended to train him well. I certainly had the time, but that was about to change. Within a month I was full almost every day, and loving the job despite the long hours. My furry charges depended on me and I intended to live up to their trust and their owner’s expectations. The dogs taught me how to have fun in the process.

On 20 Years of Dog Training

On 20 years of dog training

Do what you love, love what you do. This marks my 20th year as a full-time professional dog trainer, which makes me a lucky girl.

Top ten list of things I have learned in approximately 140 dog-years of training:

1. Each dog is different and deserves to be treated as an individual. Whether in a private home setting or in class, a good trainer must make the dog and owner feel they are special.

2. Trainers must be creative with solutions to problems. If waving a treat in front of the dog isn’t working, try something else. While you are evaluating the dog, the owner is evaluating you. Impress them with your ability to adapt.

3. Dogs cannot be put into a box, such as ‘Dog A responds to stimuli thusly, so use solution B to modify behavior’. This sounds like you read it in a book, which the owner can get for free at the library.

4. Dogs are fantastic observers of body language. If you don’t care for a certain breed, or small dogs, or hairy dogs, or dogs with big ears, or dogs that bark, you’d better find something you love about that particular dog, or the dog won’t respond to your training cues.

5. Compliment the dog owner, sincerely, on their efforts to improve their relationship with the dog through training. They have hired a trainer to enhance this relationship and expect to reap some benefits from it. Telling the owner “Herding breeds are going to chase and nip your kids, it’s just how it is” will not cut it. Seriously.

6. Dog owners can shape good behavior and encourage good traits through training. This doesn’t have to start with puppies; you can do this with adult dogs. Pick a situation that comes up often, and rehearse what you want the dog to do. For example, someone comes to your door and rings the bell. Dog goes crazy. Now, give him something else to do, like the ‘Come’ command with a tasty treat at the end of this rainbow. Congrats all around.

7. Dog owners can also shape bad behavior by reacting inappropriately to their dog’s bad habits. Example: dog jumps up on the owner’s leg. Owner looks down and touches dog. Dog is inadvertently rewarded for jumping up. Instead, encourage the owner to use a command like “Back up” and then “Sit”, before touching the dog. Dog develops new and better habit. Congrats all around.

8. Observe the family dynamic and work within it. You won’t fundamentally change the habits of a freewheeling household with four rowdy kids, so don’t try. Besides, you’ll look like a Debbie Downer. Instead, help parents with redirecting techniques (see number 6). Counsel parents to give the dog a peaceful place, like a bed under a table or crate to go to when a doggie time-out is in order.

9. Body language. Use it! Observe dogs at a dog park or in a daycare situation. Or, if you have more than one dog, watch them compete for your attention. You’ll see body blocks, leaning, pushing, deference, assertion, etc. Humans can successfully use some of these cues to get respect from the dog without being harsh. Think of when you open the front door to take the dog out. Does he dart out in front of you? Would he do that to another dog he respected? Conversely, think of the shy dog. Will he enjoy your bending directly over him for an eye-to-eye greeting? Hardly. Instead, turn sideways and bend down without looking at him. Talk sweetly when he sniffs you.

10. Quit while you are ahead. After a couple of successful repetitions at one thing, do something else. This keeps the dog and owner from getting bored and burned out. Change the venue, add new challenges, and always come back to something easy before the lesson ends. Congrats all around.

Next post: best stories from 20 years of training

Year one of dog training. A tough job.

What’s the rush?

Adding a new dog to your existing pack? Whether you have one mellow oldster or three trouble-seeking missiles, bringing a new dog into your fold should be done with care and patience.

Just before Christmas, I worked with a sharp lady, career-savvy and independent. The kind of fun lady you like to include in your ‘wine nights’. She recently opened her home to a neglected and thin female Beauceron (french shepherd; a herding dog). Assured by the former owner that the dog was friendly with other pups, she still took the precaution of having her two established dogs meet the new one on leash and on neutral territory, per my advice and research she had done on her own. The Beauceron did not read my emails, however, and  growled fiercely when approached by her other two mixed breed dogs.

Undaunted, this lady sought help and we began a counter-conditioning and redirecting process. This is a wordy way of saying we would attempt to change the new dog’s mind about how to react to the other dogs.

The Beauceron’s obedience was decent, despite seven years spent outdoors with a doghouse and a dominant Doberman for company. In order to have influence over her behavior toward the other dogs, we had to convince the new dog (and the established dogs) to let the humans lead, and canines should follow. (Often people will think it’s best to ‘let the dogs work it out’. Not so, unless you like expensive vet bills.) We trained the Beauceron low-tech; a tennis ball and basic commands to establish leadership and reduce her energy level. Next: back inside to set up our ‘can’t we all just get along?’ area. This consisted of a baby gate in a doorway with her two established dogs on one side, and the Beauceron on the other. With tasty treats in hand,  we now had a means of getting the dogs in close proximity safely, but attentive to us. We wanted the dogs to briefly acknowledge one another and then look away, and receive a reward for that.

At first, we used the ‘watch’ command to ask for canine-human eye contact, followed by treats for compliance. Then, we did nothing for a moment. Without specific direction, the dogs would glance at each other, maybe sneak a quick sniff through the gate, then they would turn away and look back at us, the folks holding the treats. We watched the canine body language carefully. Mouth open, slight pant, face angled looked good to us. Mouth shut tight, eyes riveted and ears pricked, not so good.  When the Beauceron growled, we just used the ‘come’ command or ‘watch’ to get her to turn away and look back at us, effectively redirecting her energy and changing her mind about what her reaction to the others should be. We were counter-conditioning; changing the dog’s response to a stimulus.

Wisely, the lady suggested she would keep them separate and continue this exercise, and only take leash walks with all three when she had the extra hands to do so.

Visitors arrived at her house over the holidays, and mistakes happened when doors were left open and the dogs got together. As dogs will do, they surprised everyone with friendly greetings and face licking, and then turned their attention to the humans. As good as this was, the lady knew that she still had to manage them, a lot, before they could all sleep in a pile together. Setbacks were bound to occur, but now she had the tools to improve their relationship with each other, and with her.

So, what’s the rush? Take time to do your homework and the tension level in your home will decrease dramatically. The dogs will respect your ‘take charge’ attitude and begin to do what dogs

Who called for a herding dog?

do best: follow the leader.