for her. If nothing else, her getting used to wearing that was a step in the right direction. With profuse apologies, Ken eventually moved her past me, and I balanced the screen in the doorway again.
For the next several minutes, I showed Ken how to use the clicker in conjunction with tidbits. “The neat thing about using the clicker is that the dog thinks she’s training
you
to click it and give her a treat. That way, you get Maggie’s full attention and enthusiasm.”
Like many woefully undertrained dogs, Maggie made great initial strides by virtue of finding something to challenge her and to encourage her owner to reward her. The concept of heeling, though, was completely foreign to Maggie. Ken soon grew frustrated at trying to turn and block her path when she attempted to lead. He looked at me in exasperation. “You sure all this leash stuff is necessary?”
“Yes. You’re strong enough to maintain a good grip on her, but what happens if someone else needs to take her for a walk? Or what if her clasp breaks, and she decides to run into traffic? Think of it from her perspective. All of her life, she’s been taught to believe that it was her duty to lead the way.”
“Yeah, but Mary got mad when . . .” He sighed and swiped some dots of perspiration off his forehead. “Mind takin’ over for a minute? I gotta go get a drink of water.”
He handed me the leash, and Maggie instantly turned and tried to back away in an effort to free herself. I slapped my thigh, then clicked my tongue and gave her a treat. A strange hissing noise broke my concentration, and I looked around. It seemed to come from the direction of Ruby’s trailer.
I heard a definite “Psst” this time and led Maggie in that direction to investigate. The beckoning sounds were coming from Ruby’s yard.
I did a double take when I spotted the top of Ruby’s head. She was kneeling behind a shrub. “Are you talking to me?” I asked.
“Yeah, Allie,” she said in a partial whisper. “Don’t tell Ken, but I need you to take a quick look at my dog.”
Though I kept her on a short leash, Maggie bowled her way through the shrub and promptly started licking Ruby’s face. She cursed and swatted at the dog. I pulled Maggie away and got her to sit, then asked, “Why can’t I tell Ken?”
“He won’t like me hornin’ in on his appointment with you.”
“I’m in the middle of my work now, but I’ll come over afterwards. That would be the black Lab mix you mentioned earlier?”
She rose and nodded, her black hair now every which way. “He seems to be having a hard time standing up.”
“Does he have physical problems? Hip dysplasia?”
“No, but I think—” She broke off and cursed under her breath. “Here comes Ken again.” She shaped her hands like a megaphone and called to Ken, “I jus’ need to borrow your dog lady for a minute, Ken. I’ll get her right back to you.”
Ken waved pleasantly and said, “No problem, Ruby. How’s T-Rex? Haven’t seen him around the last couple days.”
“Fine. He’s just sleepin’,” she called back, then said under her breath to me, “He’s been sleeping all day now.”
“For twenty-four hours? Without waking?” My sense of alarm was rising. With the downward spiral my day was taking, the horrid possibility of my discovering a dead dog seemed to be a logical progression. Without hesitation, I handed her the leash and said, “Here. Give Maggie back to Ken.”
“It ain’t like he stopped breathing!” she said as I rushed past her and into her trailer.
A medium-large black dog was lying on his side on a small throw rug just inside the living room, which, I noticed, was almost as messy as Ken’s. I knelt beside the dog and placed the back of my hand near his nostrils. I could detect his warm breath on my skin, and his rib cage was moving up and down in regular, peaceful intervals.
Because this was a totally unfamiliar dog, I backed away; the expression “Let sleeping dogs
For the next several minutes, I showed Ken how to use the clicker in conjunction with tidbits. “The neat thing about using the clicker is that the dog thinks she’s training
you
to click it and give her a treat. That way, you get Maggie’s full attention and enthusiasm.”
Like many woefully undertrained dogs, Maggie made great initial strides by virtue of finding something to challenge her and to encourage her owner to reward her. The concept of heeling, though, was completely foreign to Maggie. Ken soon grew frustrated at trying to turn and block her path when she attempted to lead. He looked at me in exasperation. “You sure all this leash stuff is necessary?”
“Yes. You’re strong enough to maintain a good grip on her, but what happens if someone else needs to take her for a walk? Or what if her clasp breaks, and she decides to run into traffic? Think of it from her perspective. All of her life, she’s been taught to believe that it was her duty to lead the way.”
“Yeah, but Mary got mad when . . .” He sighed and swiped some dots of perspiration off his forehead. “Mind takin’ over for a minute? I gotta go get a drink of water.”
He handed me the leash, and Maggie instantly turned and tried to back away in an effort to free herself. I slapped my thigh, then clicked my tongue and gave her a treat. A strange hissing noise broke my concentration, and I looked around. It seemed to come from the direction of Ruby’s trailer.
I heard a definite “Psst” this time and led Maggie in that direction to investigate. The beckoning sounds were coming from Ruby’s yard.
I did a double take when I spotted the top of Ruby’s head. She was kneeling behind a shrub. “Are you talking to me?” I asked.
“Yeah, Allie,” she said in a partial whisper. “Don’t tell Ken, but I need you to take a quick look at my dog.”
Though I kept her on a short leash, Maggie bowled her way through the shrub and promptly started licking Ruby’s face. She cursed and swatted at the dog. I pulled Maggie away and got her to sit, then asked, “Why can’t I tell Ken?”
“He won’t like me hornin’ in on his appointment with you.”
“I’m in the middle of my work now, but I’ll come over afterwards. That would be the black Lab mix you mentioned earlier?”
She rose and nodded, her black hair now every which way. “He seems to be having a hard time standing up.”
“Does he have physical problems? Hip dysplasia?”
“No, but I think—” She broke off and cursed under her breath. “Here comes Ken again.” She shaped her hands like a megaphone and called to Ken, “I jus’ need to borrow your dog lady for a minute, Ken. I’ll get her right back to you.”
Ken waved pleasantly and said, “No problem, Ruby. How’s T-Rex? Haven’t seen him around the last couple days.”
“Fine. He’s just sleepin’,” she called back, then said under her breath to me, “He’s been sleeping all day now.”
“For twenty-four hours? Without waking?” My sense of alarm was rising. With the downward spiral my day was taking, the horrid possibility of my discovering a dead dog seemed to be a logical progression. Without hesitation, I handed her the leash and said, “Here. Give Maggie back to Ken.”
“It ain’t like he stopped breathing!” she said as I rushed past her and into her trailer.
A medium-large black dog was lying on his side on a small throw rug just inside the living room, which, I noticed, was almost as messy as Ken’s. I knelt beside the dog and placed the back of my hand near his nostrils. I could detect his warm breath on my skin, and his rib cage was moving up and down in regular, peaceful intervals.
Because this was a totally unfamiliar dog, I backed away; the expression “Let sleeping dogs
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