"Beasley's Story": (....where else can I relate it but on a doodle website?)

[jen w.]

It was surreal. A lady in a bonnet and apron, sitting on top of a trampoline was playing with a black shaggy puppy. Here I was at a Mennonite farm - hardly the place you'd expect to find anyone playing with a puppy. Certainly not the place you'd expect to find a trampoline. The puppy turned out to be mine. The lady in the bonnet turned out to be the breeder...

It was the Spring of 2004, and here in the middle of nowhere, on a dairy farm near Listowel, Ontario I was about to begin a new stage in my life as a "dog owner".

 I had never owned a dog. I grew up with cats. My "grass-proud" dad was put off by dogs. I'd always wanted a dog though, and after researching various breeds, I came upon pictures of "doodles". Cute, funky coats,droopy eyes, hypo-allergenic... I was hooked.

I pictured myself walking along some sidewalk somewhere, my handsome shaggy dog at heel, obligingly following my every command. People would comment on how "well-behaved" he was, how elegant we both looked together.  The scenario had been playing out in my mind ever since I answered the ad in the paper and found out that there was only one puppy left. "I'll take him", I said without hesitation. Now, here I was, exhilarated, excited... blissfully ignorant.



The puppy was mine. Sooner or later, I knew I'd be his, ah, "master", "pack leader", "boss"...whatever it was I was supposed to be. I didn't really understand the process of how that would happen. I'd never heard of Cesar Milan or Brad Pattison. I guess I sort of believed that since I would be feeding him and caring for him, our relationship would naturally "evolve" into something like that. Mistake number one made by a first-time dog owner.



I loaded him into the cat carrier. At seven weeks of age, he barely fit. His paws seemed out of proportion to his overall size - the first clue that he might become larger than I'd reckoned. Later, on his first visit to the vet, I was informed that he was going to be a "bruiser". Was I prepared for this size of dog, asked my kindly, dubious vet? "Oh, I  wanted a large dog!", I assured him, still un-phased by the implications of a petite lady with an 80 lb dog.

I named him, "Beasley", after a doll owned by a character in an old TV series from the '60s, "Family Affair". Originally, I had planned on something loftier or more esoteric, maybe "Shakespeare" or "Chaucer". Within an hour of getting him home, I realized he was no Shakespeare. Somehow, Beasley was the name that stuck.



Through those first few months, the puppy doubled, almost tripled, in size.  When he first arrived, the top of his head just reached the bottom of the arm on my armchair. By the time he was seven months old, his head rose higher than that same arm on that same chair.  Fully grown, he weighed close to 80 lbs, tall, with elegant long legs, a shiny black, curly coat, the build of a standard poodle, and the head and tail of a golden retriever - every bit as magnificent as I had pictured.

 He was also very strong, very agile, fast, and very, very determined.

Right from the start, our walks together were not the sedate, elegant strolls I had pictured. When Beasley saw something he wanted, maybe a piece of garbage or paper coffee cup lying on the ground, he would simply hurtle towards it, taking me with him. We tried various well-known leash-related devices as well as harnesses. Usually after a month or two, a bolt somewhere would pop and the components would snap.

Meeting other dog owners along our walk routes, many helpful suggestions were offered over the course of that first year. These well-meaning individuals would make suggestions while my dog would be straining in the opposite direction, barking at me to "move on....come on, quit the talking and move on...".

"Ignore him…", experienced dog-owners would tell me. "Just ignore him. Turn your back to him. Let him know you're not falling for that..." I would ignore him. I would turn my back to him....to carry on the conversation....over the loud barking. Eventually, smiling weakly (continuous barking in the background) they would have to move on, shaking their heads at the woman who just didn't have a clue how to train a dog.



At seven months, Beasley was enrolled in obedience school. This was going to be the answer.  I just knew it. This school operated on the "treat principle", (another technique I have since learned is not the best idea). The idea was that you start by rewarding the dog with a treat, tapering them off as you progress until the dog no longer needs a treat to do your bidding. The problem was that as soon as treats began to be withdrawn, Beasley saw no particular point in performing the command. "No treat. No obedience" was his credo. The tactic worked for him for a very long time. In fact, he soon realized that he could actually train his owner with the "treat principle", refusing to come into the house when called, refusing to drop items, refusing to do just about anything unless he received a treat. Failure to reward him often resulted in immediate destruction or consumption of certain objects.



On the last session, dog owners were instructed to stand along one wall, their dogs in sit/stay along the opposite wall. Neatly laid down the centre of the room, between owners and dogs, was a row of biscuits. On command, dogs were to be instructed to come to the owner without touching the biscuit in between.  I watched with trepidation as not a single dog faltered or went for the biscuit along the way.

Then, came the dreaded moment. "Beasley, your turn", called out the instructor. "Beasley, come!", I commanded. Beasley, started towards me, saw all the biscuits still sitting in a row down the middle and one by one, walked down the centre and gobbled them down. Then he proceeded towards me, a few absent sniffs along the way before he did so. I was mortified. The culminating activity in any teacher's lesson plan is the blow-out, the point of the lesson. We had failed this one. Every dog received a certificate, including, my dog, but we hadn't really earned it. It felt like only one of us cared.

Training set-backs were one thing. Walks during a typical Canadian winter were another. One night, at 10 months old, he broke free, tore along the snow-covered lawns of the street, retractable leash banging and slapping against the icy ground, until he reached a cluster of bushes.  Sweeping through the centre of a neighbour's shrubs, he took with him what was left of the cracked leash case, a trail of broken branches and plastic pieces strung out behind. I caught up with him a block later. The leash was destroyed. I spent the next 15 minutes retracing our steps, gathering telltale signs of broken plastic along the way, fervently praying no one had seen us.


On another evening stroll, that first February, I ran into a man, accompanied by his Nova Scotia duck tolling retriever - a fine red, mid-sized dog, well-behaved, calm, mature, and wise.  We had seen these two many times before as I struggled with my dog pulling and running ahead while I slid along helplessly behind.



"Here", said the little Scottish man, "Let me have a go at 'im. Ye hold my dog and I'll show ye how 'tis done..." He handed me the leash of his dog while he took Beasley and began to walk ahead of us on the sidewalk, framed by snowbanks on either side. This was going quite well. I was somewhat dismayed. How could this man, a virtual stranger, be making the big doodle behave so well? What was I doing wrong?

Suddenly, Beasley heard something in the nearby trees. With a single bound, he leapt over the snowbank, taking the little man with him.  Down he went, letting go of the leash, Beasley bounding joyously towards the trees. The little Scottish man and I tore after him. Breathless, we caught my dog and the man turned to me, "Aye...a  bit o' a handful, he is that". Every time we met the man after that, he would nod with a weak smile. He never offered to "gae me a hand" again.



That first year was a challenge, one I had never counted on, to be truthful. I thought it would all be a piece of cake. As a teacher, I figured I'd be able to get control of any beast. I worked with 12 to 14 year olds every day, after all. How hard could it be? It was difficult, sometimes seemingly insurmountable and I won't lie. There were times when I was so discouraged that I considered whether there might be a better home for Beasley. I didn't know much about dogs to begin with. By the end of that first year, I knew what I didn't know. Yet, I had grown to love this dog. I couldn't imagine my life without him, so I didn't give up and things got better. He trained me to be a good "doodler" and eventually I learned his lessons well....

 

[Colleen, Jake & Baxter]

It is amazing how despite what we sometimes have to go through with these doodles they manage to steal our hearts.  I dog sat one of my first foster doodles recently and fell in love with him all over again.....even after he almost shortened my kitty's life:(!!!   He apparently remembered there was a feline living with us.   When he came in the front door he ran right up the stairs, blew through a barricaded door and chased the poor kitty up the blinds in our bedroom.  It happened so fast in was unbelievable. Even after all of the excitement and kitty was safe behind a door he still managed to capture our hearts during his stay.

[Deanna & Desi & Cori]

Love your story.  By the way, I spent 25 years teaching 12 to 14 year olds, so I know how you feel.  If I can "command" a group of middle schoolers day after day, I can do anything!!!

[Karen and Bridget]

Wonderful story!  Can't wait to hear more :)

[Jane, Guinness and Murphy]

What a fantastic blog....yes we will definitely need a sequel.

[Maryann,Roo and Tigger]

more, more,  I want more story.  You are a great storyteller.  I could also totally relate.  I have always had dogs, most have trained me to meet them on a common ground.  Roo was a difficult puppy and dog, energetic to a fault, a puller, a barker, a jumper.  Today at four he is a pretty good dog and comes when he is called, mostly.

Tigger was a sweet gentle puppy, an old soul,  quickly leash trained and loves to learn tricks.  But Tigger is just not ganna come when he's called unless there is a treat involved and it better be a good treat.  I totally identify with you. And thanks for the great story.

 

[Adrianne Matzkin]

Sorry I giggled so hard - the picture in my mind of the little man flying over snowbank was just too funny. Of course it wasn't me!

Lots of Doodles have a strong prey drive which is why doodles are not for everyone. I am thrilled that you loved him more than you hated the 'issues'

I agree with Doris - would love to read more about your trials and tribulations with Beasley! I remember Mr. Beasley too!

[Doris, Knox & Flash]

Wow, what a story!! Please write more -- I'm hooked!!!

[Charlotte and Bo]

I would not trade my anti anxiety pill taking, fear aggressive, counter surfing, thief of a doodle for any other dog.

[Jennifer and Jack]

Love it!

[BG and Gavin]

I loved your blog Jen!  Can't wait for the next installment.  We have a Scotsman across the road that loves to "scuff that beautiful wee pup."  He is not so wee and not so much of a pup anymore but brings plenty of smiles to our neighbour who thinks he is the best looking dog he has ever seen.  Who am I to argue?