Puppy Training

Rather like when one has a baby and is immediately asked whether it is sleeping through the night, one of the first things you hear when you get a new puppy is ‘When are you starting training lessons?’ Both questions are, I am afraid, inevitable, but hopefully not inextricable, and definitely not mutually exclusive.  The day after we got Muttley, we actually got asked both questions by the same person.  This either meant that she was genuinely concerned for our welfare, or that she wasn’t sure which one was appropriate in the circumstances.  Needless to say, the dog has never had a problem sleeping, and indeed puts himself to bed in his covered crate at 9.15 on the dot every night, stirring at 7.30 the next morning. He sleeps better than anyone else in the house…

On the training front however, I wasn’t sure exactly how we were doing, and so as soon as I could I booked into a training class that started in the New Year. Muttley at 7 months is now nearly full size, and getting stronger by the day, and although very good on walks, coming back the majority of times – I still cannot hand on heart swear that his recall is 100%, and it only takes the once to cause chaos.  However, dog trainers are a breed unto themselves, and so I looked around very carefully before picking an evening class run by a trainer that had been recommended to me.

The morning walk went well that day.  I was strolling along with Muttley and Middle Son, who was taking a break from revision and throwing sticks happily for the dog to fetch, but not bring back (we are still working on that one).  Behind us we could hear some shouting and a man appeared with four leads around his neck and the same amount of dogs charging ahead of him.  Two shot off into the bushes despite his repeated yells to ‘Come Back’. Two, a curly haired labradoodle and a very smiley black dog came bounding towards us, with Smiley sitting down by me whilst Curly mounted him energetically.  Middle Son began to giggle whilst I adapted what I hoped was a neutral expression and Muttley came in curiously for a closer look.  ‘Stop It!’ yelled the man in embarrassment as he neared us, and we began to move off, Middle Son throwing a stick for Muttley which broke his concentration on his biology lesson as he charged after it.

‘Don’t throw the stick!’ yelled the man angrily.  I looked back at him.  Now those of you who have met me, know that Shrinking and Violet are not words that I would put down when describing my personality.  My language (being of part Irish descent) has also been called colourful, amongst other things, and Middle Son looked at me cautiously as I stood tapping my foot and waiting for Yeller.  I can only say that as he launched into reasons why I shouldn’t throw a stick for my dog whilst other dogs are coming towards him (it could cause a fight etc.) I thanked him ever so much for his advice, but I had instinctively felt sure that his dogs would be okay, as I was certain that if he had seen us throwing sticks as he came up, he would have put any problem dog on a lead.  Going a little red he said angrily ‘I do know what I’m talking about, I’m a dog trainer you know’ and off he went, shouting as Curly and Smiley started up their lovefest again in some undergrowth.  For the remainder of the walk all we could hear was his shouting and a dog whistle being blown in an attempt to round up his dogs.

I have no objection to be given advice, but not to be yelled at - the fact of the matter was that he had said that he was a dog trainer, and I hoped fervently that our evening training session wouldn’t reveal him to be ours…

We turned up, Little Man and I, to a hall, entering through the side door with a small brown terrier-like puppy. The floor was slippery and the puppies scitter scattered towards one another, straining at their leashes. Muttley looked huge as Hanks’ parents confirmed that he too was 7 months old and very feisty (despite recently being neutered) with an enormous small man syndrome, snarling and yapping at our pup.  Then in came Willow, a very dippy looking tiny English Bull Terrier puppy, who would apparently reach about 3 stone at her peak.  A big bouncy Rottweiler puppy came bounding in and Muttley and he charged around in a tangle of leads and bottoms.  Last to arrive was a beagle, with that mopey, dopey hang dog look and two anxious looking parents.  (Having had a beagle in the past I knew how they felt…)

The trainer turned out to be a lively woman who dispensed with our specially bought-to-impress organic dog biscuits and quickly got us all sorted out with smelly treats of cheese and frankfurters. We started on the basic training Sit, Down, Stand. 

The Rottie and Muttley got the hang of it easily, with Muttley utterly confused (but absolutely delighted) why he was suddenly being given treats for doing things he had been doing for months. Willow kept on scrambling into her mothers lap, yawning, and was more interested in batting her eyelashes at Muttley. Hanks had no idea what to do, so started barking madly, chasing his tail and snapping at  Luigi the beagle, who it turned out was actually blind.  Now whereas a blind beagle sounds like the stuff of farce, I suddenly had enormous respect for his owners who had voluntarily taken on a disabled puppy. The trainer spoke gently to him and within minutes he was literally eating out of her hand. Luckily he had a great sense of smell, so the treats were successful, but it soon became apparent to me that the trainer was actually training us as puppy parents rather than the dogs.

This suspicion was confirmed when she gave us a sheet of homework, with the explanation that if we didn’t do it, the dogs would tell us at the next session...and they wouldn’t get their certificate of training at the end of the course. Little Man rolled his eyes as if to say what would Muttley do with a certificate (well, we can hazard a guess), but of course none of us parents wanted to be the one that didn’t pass – so she was on to a good thing.

We got home, I was covered in dog hair, and Muttley was waddling with a big ball of cheese forming in his stomach, panting happily.  Little Man started cutting something out of cardboard.  What was he doing? Creating a frame for Muttley’s certificate (when he got it) to hang on his crate. 

I guess if he wakes earlier than 7.30 in the morning, at least he will have something to look at and admire until his family gets up…