Dog Tails: Pupperoni and Other Training Tricks

His trainer told us he was “food driven.” Ralph didn’t respond to the usual commands like “sit” and “stay” unless accompanied by the promise of a quick treat, preferably involving some crude protein.

Early on we realized that our furry little charge needed some guidance. Repeated attempts to coax him in from the yard, heel (whatever that is) and just quit biting the legs on the dining table chairs proved unsuccessful. We commanded, begged, pled and negotiated to no avail. A couple of lawyers, we’d run across some tough negotiators, but this little dude really had a mind, and a will, of his own.

We were no match, and therefore called in a professional, signing up for classes at the local mega pet store.

The first group class involved a lot of inappropriate nose placement and a bit of growling but there were no serious infractions and we were allowed to return. By the second class, Ralphie was straining at the leash to get in and sniff his friends. Training exercises were difficult due to distractions, but we all had fun. Bill asked the trainer if he gave private lessons. He declined. 

Eventually we settled into a sort of bribery based system given his penchant for treats. Ralph now knows to come in from the yard in the morning as breakfast is served immediately thereafter. Heaven forbid I am otherwise occupied, on the phone, or making my tea. In protest, his food bowl is soccer kicked halfway across the kitchen followed by an expectant look. The routine never varies. After picking a variety from the shelf, usually containing “meaty juices,” the corner’s pulled back, the choice announced, sniffed, approved, and breakfast is served.

Ralph’s keen understanding of human behavior makes it impossible to sneak out without an underhand toss of a milk bone meant to distract the sneaky sentinel from the door. On the rare occasion he darts outside, no amount of coaxing or trickery can get him in quickly. Ralph knows an invitation into the car is only precedent to containing him, and lifting him back into the house. Partially backing down the drive only worked once. He knows when the invite is sincere. He is way too quick for us to catch–it’s a sport for him, and frustrating for the one on the tight schedule. 

There was a popular biography recently of the “World’s Worst Dog,” which later became a major motion picture. I wonder if there is really such an animal or is the more accurate depiction “World’s Worst Furry Human?” After all, our brains are wired differently, except maybe for the food motivation thing. Some of us have that too. 

So, we’ve reached a kind of détente in our home, occasionally interrupted by a short mutiny, but generally guided by a semi-mutual understanding of species diversity and occasional treats.

In the meantime, there’s a civilized “yip” at the side door, which shall escalate every forty five seconds, in volume and pitch, until the door is opened and Ralph bursts through expectantly. He’s quite a good trainer. Breakfast is served.