Keep on keepin' on

Two years after completely giving up on all away-from-home activities, Ida started going to rally class.  The first set of classes we took were really just to work on working in a new space where there are sometimes dogs, and helping her feel safe about being there.  I kept things easy - rotating around a pivot disk or sitting on cue were things she had down-pat at home, in the yard, and in an empty park, but could she do them after a car ride?  With another dog working at the other end of the room?

She could!

At the end of one of our classes, the instructor mentioned that Ida was doing great, that she was happy and clearly having fun.  In the car afterwards, I teared up.  I was so happy to see her happy and filled with hope and excitement for the possibilities in our future.  Maybe we'd actually be able to trial some day.

We continued going to classes, and they got easier with each week.  A couple months later, on a class day, I got home from work much later than usual.  I was in time to make it to class, but just barely, and I didn't give Ida her situational medication before leaving (they would've kicked in towards the end of class, anyway).  She'd been doing to well that I didn't think it would be a big deal.  I expected she would struggle a bit more than she had been, but I figured things would be fine if we just took it easy.

It was not fine.  Clearly stress from the car ride and the disrupted routine were too much.  She was nervous - conflicted - going into the building.  She would settle in her crate when other dogs were working, and couldn't focus. By the end of class, even an easy exercise like Choose to Heel was too much for her.  After a minute of sniffing the floor, tail down and ears back, she chose her crate over me and cookies.

I cried in the car all the way home.  I felt so defeated, so heartbroken.  It didn't matter how much work we put in it would never be enough for Ida to do the things that dreamed for her.   Some dogs finish championship titles in two years.  We couldn't even play easy games in a familiar class setting.   What was the point?  Why was I putting in so much work only for it to not make a difference?

I dreaded the next class, but I am cheap and hate missing classes that I've already paid for.  I made sure Ida got her Xanax on time, and we got to class early enough to walk around outside and sniff around inside before others arrived.  I had my happy worker back.

It was a hard lesson about my own resilience in the face of unmet expectations and a reminder that progress is not linear; a single session without the context of those before and after it, is not representative of the direction you're heading in.  Sometimes when things go bad, you really do have to just... keep on keepin' on.  Maybe you take a step back, a look at what happened before, and if those circumstances were unusual or a one-off you just try again next time.

But one bad day doesn't make failure.  It's just a bump (or sometimes a lake) in the road of progress.

I have a confession. I buy books with no intention of reading them.

As a kid, I was a voracious reader.  I was nearly always won the "how many books can you read" competitions held in many elementary classrooms; in Grade 6 I even won a prize in a province-wide contest sponsored by the Calgary Flames.

My love of books has carried over into adulthood, and followed me into my (re)discovery of animal behaviour and love of dogs.  Instead of running to the YA section of Chapters to find the latest adventures of Ashleigh's Wonder, now I go to the used bookstore to trawl for R+ and science-based dog and animal behaviour books.

Sometimes the only dog books on the shelves are Cesar Milan or Dogs for Dummies or generic breed books, and I walk away a bit disappointed.  But sometimes... Sometimes I get lucky.  Sometimes I find a gem (or two).  I gleefully hand over my money, even knowing full well that as an adult I just haven't made the time to read like I used to as a kid - those books will come home with me and sit on my bookshelf.  Watching me walk past them every time I feed the dogs.  Feeling their little i's watch me as I pointedly avoid their gaze.  What is the point of buying books if I am not actually going to take in their knowledge? 

"Why have you forsaken us?"

For 2019 I set myself a goal to read one shelf-bound dog/behaviour book per month until I get through the collection.  Except the textbook that I bought on a whim, which I will aim instead to read one chapter of per month.  And just to really motivate me, I am going to let myself buy a new book for every 3 old ones I read.

This month I've been reading The Genius of Dogs by Brian Hare, but I'll save my review for when I've finished. 

How about you?  Do you collect vessels of dog knowledge?  What are you reading right now?

Progress is not a Finish Line

Whether it's teaching a formal retrieve or to tolerating the existence of strange dogs, setting specific goals helps me think through what the desired end behaviour is and the steps I need to get there.  But to be useful, and not just a giant boulder hanging over our heads waiting to crush us, we need to set goals that are practical for both the dog and the handler.  Sometimes it's difficult to reconcile our dreams for our dogs with what is possible.  I am going to need a new car soon. No matter how much I'd like to replace my 1998 Honda Civic with a 2019 Volvo XC40, my bank account says it's just not going to happen.  Not this year. 

Some day, you'll be mine.  But not in 2019.

When setting my car-related goal last year, I feel I made one major mistake: I was focusing too much on a specific achievement - being able to ride in the car for 30 minutes - instead of the process needed to get there.  While finish line-type goals are definitely useful, for a dog like Ida, the "finish line" (her tolerance of riding in the car) is kind of intangible, pretty difficult to measure, and fluctuates constantly.  It can be easy to fall into the trap of thinking of "progress" like a finish line. 

While you can't really go backwards from a Q, title or ribbon - they are yours forever - "progress" changes from day to day, car ride to car ride.  Just because Ida could tolerate 20 minutes in the car today doesn't mean she will be able to handle it tomorrow.  There may (hopefully!) come a time when she can handle 20 minutes in the car without batting an eye day after day, but I know that for us, focusing on a specific target like that will put me off track the next time she can't handle 20 minutes in the car.

Seemed relevant, questionable attributions aside.

So, instead of setting a finish line for Ida's goals this year, I am setting them based on taking specific, measurable actions.  I want to outline the things that I will be doing, rather than the places I want to be going.  That way I will feel like less like failure if things don't go as expected.  With that in mind, here is my biggest goal for Ida for 2019:

We are going to take one car ride per week of any duration to do a fun thing - Nosework or rally class, squirrel watching - and at least one car ride per month that goes on the highway.  We will aim to increase highway rides by a few minutes at a time, or until she starts to either pant or refuse food, at which point we'll stop as soon as it is safe to do so.

And so far, week into the new year, we are on track - 2 car-rides down, only 50 more to go.

Revival

Hi!  If this is your first time here, welcome.  If you've been following Ida's story from the beginning, thank you and welcome back!


When I adopted Ida from the local shelter 3 years ago, I had no idea that our journey would be so twisty-turny.  At the time, I was at the top of Mount Stupid; having successfully rehabilitated a leash-reactive dog, I thought I could tackle any behaviour problem.  In hindsight, that was incredibly naive.  (I also am not sure I was wrong, but that could fill its own post).


All stories have their ups and downs, but sometimes the extent of our downs were, well... extreme.  When I met the cute, playful puppy in the shelter, all I saw was the classes we'd take, the agility courses we'd run, and some of the ribbons we might take home.  That she might not be able to do those things never even crossed my mind.

When I first noticed she was so anxious in the car, wide-eyed and shaking just sitting in the parked garage, I struggled with what to do.  I really wanted to keep playing agility, but every drive felt like I was torturing her to do an activity that was really for me.  I didn't know how to handle the baggage that came with it.  I felt guilt constantly.  And I felt like a failure because I wasn't able to train my dog to be comfortable in the car, which millions of dogs can do without any special training at all.  So more than 2 years ago, I started this blog to externalize the struggles that I was having with a young dog who stole my heart while also breaking it.

Well, Ida and I have come a long, long way since then.

Some of our accomplishments have been documented here.  And they are accomplishments, even though many dogs can do with ease the things that we've worked towards for years.  But since I started this blog, I found my tribe - a group of dog people with a shared philosophy, and I have been celebrating with them more, and posting here less.

Ida's journey: from rolling to rally.

But the more time I spent with "dog people", the more I see people going through what we are.  I think back to how I have felt - and still sometimes feel - on this journey with Ida: it can be incredibly isolating to be a "dog person" with a dog who can't do "dog things", even with an accepting, supportive tribe.

So, I am reviving this blog.  I want better document our journey and what it's like to live with and love an anxious dog.  I want to write about our failures and our successes, but also about my thoughts and self-discoveries made a long the way. 

Maybe other dog handlers who are also struggling with their difficult dogs will find it; and maybe it well help you feel not quite so alone.

Even when you think you're finished - it's not over yet.