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“What happens in a few days, sometimes even a single day, can change the course of a whole lifetime.”
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Batman was at it again.
Even over the rumble of my old, diesel truck I could hear my dog’s gruff and incessant barks from a block away. I took a long, deep breath as I drove down the street. Frustration and embarrassment twisting in my gut. I knew the neighbors' patience had to be wearing thin. Mine was, and I’d been away at work all day.
Once parked in front of my home, I opened the door of my truck and shouted, “Batman, no barking!” An all too welcome silence filled the evening air which gave me the slightest sense of victory and relief.
Before I could walk the twenty feet to the front door another bark rang out from inside the house. It was nearly as loud as it had been when he was out in the backyard. Again I shouted, “Batman, no barking!” Upon opening the front door, my dog, a fifty-five pound, red-nosed pitbull leaped up and planted his two front paws right into my stomach. I pushed him off and sternly said, “Batman, down! No jumping.”
I put my work things aside and bent down to greet him. My hands found his neck slick with an oily substance, clotted with dirt, and smelling strongly of citrus. My stomach sank with a sense of defeat as I realized what had happened.
In an attempt to cure Batman of his barking problem, I’d recently purchased a collar that would spray citronella oil towards his face every time he barked. Evidently this had not even been a slight deterrent. I took it off from around his neck and mentally added it to the growing list of things that hadn’t helped our situation.
Oh, and now he’d need another bath. Bath meaning a wrestling match in the bathtub.
As I stood, he continued to whine and jump with manic energy, knowing that it was time for his evening walk. I put the pinch-collar around his neck and attached his leash. I opened the front door slowly, telling him to wait, but as soon as there was an inch of clearance, he shot out the door with what felt like an attempt to remove my shoulder from its socket.
Even with the metal barbs of the pinch-collar digging into his neck, treats in my hand, and my ongoing insistence that he walk nicely next to me, Batman pulled me around the neighborhood without seeming to notice I was attached to him.
Once we’d made an exhausting lap around the block and returned home, it was time for our evening training session. I took the unused Milk Bones from our walk and began running Batman through the tricks he knew.
As much as our time spent training was a source of pride and hope, it was also a source of deep confusion and frustration. Over the course of the last year I’d taught Batman well over twenty tricks, some of which were quite complex.
He could army crawl around the house, dragging his belly and hind legs behind him. He could speak at three different volumes. He could also do all sorts of leaps onto, over, and under obstacles. I felt like he could have been in the circus.
My confusion and frustration came from the fact that he was obviously smart enough to understand my commands. As long as we were alone, inside the house, and I had treats, he was a wonder dog.
The second I didn’t have treats, we stepped outside, or he saw another dog or person, Batman would completely ignore me and all of his obedience training would go right out the window.
The strangest thing was that the more time and energy I spent on training him, the worse these other parts of our life seemingly got. Even with a long walk in the morning, a big backyard to play in, tons of toys and bones to chew, a second walk in the evening, plenty of treats and training time every day, Batman would only listen to me when it suited him.
That night, after going through each of his tricks a few times, I called it quits and I gave him his dinner. As I watched him eat I couldn’t help but feel that, despite all my efforts, he and I were growing farther apart. There was a sinking feeling in my gut and the quiet voice in the back of my mind seemed to whisper, “He doesn’t care about you and he never will.”
Then a thought occurred to me. I turned and opened the freezer to find a raw, meaty bone I’d brought home to give to Batman on a special occasion. Perhaps giving him an extra juicy treat was just the thing to bring us a little closer together.
After he finished his dinner, I brought out the special treat and presented it to him. He was ecstatic as he carried it off to his bed. I followed him back there and smiled as I watched him begin to munch happily away.
As I bent down to pet him, something happened that would change our lives forever.
Batman lunged out towards my hand and snapped at me.
He didn’t actually bite me, but it was close. As I took a step back, his eyes locked onto mine, his lips curled back showing all of his teeth. A threatening growl rumbled from deep within his throat.
In the four years we’d been together I’d never seen anything like this. My fear immediately transformed into anger and resentment. I’d just given him an amazing treat and this is how he repaid me?!
All of my cumulative frustration with him came boiling to the surface. I stepped back in his direction, towering over him, my voice booming out, “NO!”, my rage ringing clear through the room.
His only response was to move into a more protective position over the bone and continue to snarl and stare at me with a ferocious intensity.
I grabbed the edge of a nearby piece of furniture, picked it up and slammed it back down onto the ground, creating an immense crash that shook the room around us. Thankfully this was enough to startle Batman out of his aggressive state.
Again I shouted, “NO!” and “BAD BOY!” This time he backed away from the bone and I was able to scoop it up.
I took a few long, deep breaths and tried to stop my body from shaking. Batman looked scared, and sad that he’d lost his special treat. Even though I felt relieved to have “won” the battle, I also began to feel a deep sense of shame and defeat. What was supposed to be a bonding moment had become quite possibly the worst moment of our lives together.
I set the bone aside and bent down to try and apologize for yelling at him. Even as I went to embrace him he only seemed to grow more distant and stiff. I couldn’t understand why this was happening.
I had spent the last three years learning about dog obedience. I was doing everything the dog training books, online videos, and dog trainers had taught me to do. And besides that, weren’t dogs supposed to be loyal? Why was Batman slowly becoming such a stubborn and aggressive asshole?
The growing sense of disconnection between us twisted terribly in my gut. I ended up giving him back the bone and resigned to simply leaving him alone while he ate it.
That night as I lay in bed, unable to sleep, my mind kept replaying the events of that evening and of our struggles in general. Everything I’d learned about dog training told me that Batman’s bad behavior needed to be fixed.
Did I need to start using a muzzle or shock collar? Did I need to send him off to a board and train facility? Was I going to have to put him on some sort of anxiety medication? I didn’t want to resort to these methods, but I was at my wit’s end.
How was I able to teach him so many complex tricks and still have him reject and resist me at almost every turn?
Why couldn’t Batman just be a good dog?
There in the dark hours of the night, lost in a maze of mental exhaustion and emotional pain, I somehow wandered off my usual line of thinking, and stumbled into a question I’d never considered before.
What if Batman wasn’t misbehaving?
The question brought me out of my sleepy stupor. If snapping and snarling at me wasn’t misbehaving, then what was it?
As soon as I asked the question, I knew the answer. He was honestly expressing how he felt.
Now I was wide awake.
If he was honestly expressing himself, then what was he trying to tell me?
A deep stillness settled over me, the simple answer clearing away the fog of my confusion.
Batman didn’t trust me.
There it was. The missing piece of the puzzle.
As this realization sank in, another question came to me. Why didn’t my dog trust me?
The answer was instantaneous, almost as if it had been waiting for me.
Laying there in bed and staring up at the ceiling, a whole new dimension of our life together came into perspective. I began to see how everything I did, all of Batman’s training and all of my commands, were aimed solely at managing his behavior, without any regard for his experience or the feedback he was giving me.
I wanted him to obey.
To do what I wanted, when I wanted it. To always accommodate my mood, my fragile ego, and my busy, distracted lifestyle.
I wasn’t treating Batman like a teammate, or a family member, or even a friend, because the underlying motive for everything I did was a desire for control.
No matter how skilled I was as a dog trainer, the communication from me was always the same. I have all the power. I’m bigger than you. Stronger than you. I control all the resources you need. I have the tools to make you do what I want. Therefore you need to do what I say. Be the way I want you to be. Live your life for my sake.
Even though I couldn’t see it at the time, Batman nearly attacking me would end up being one of the most valuable experiences of my life. The overwhelming pain, fear, and sadness I experienced that night were enough to wake me up and set me on a new path.
That night was the beginning of the end of our struggles as a pack.
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