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Sunday, October 17, 2010
Life as Cheese
Murphy loves cheese.
Really, what dog doesn't? It's cheese. Processed and artery-clogging and downright American, Murphy is obsessed with the little florescent (or, in his case, grayish black) squares that come out of the refrigerator door. Granted, he only gets half a square, and I break it up into little pieces, but I don't really think he cares. He'll do anything I ask of him, like "sit" or "stay" or "leave it," so long as the end reward is a sliver of his favorite treat.
I find his behavior interesting. Before I got Murphy, I'd never seen a dog go gaga for cheese. Sandy, the still-kicking-at-14 family dog, loves it when we slip her a piece of our Kraft Single, but she's never turned into a bouncing, half-crazed mongrel with big, bulging eyes and spit-coated teeth. When I pulled out the cheese box--a broken-topped, square plastic container my mother bought sometime during the 90's--she would run to her food bowl, sit quietly, and wait. I'd take my time; break the cheese in half, walk over to her, and make eye contact before lowering my hand and offering her the treat. She'd refuse to look at the cheese, like she'd been trained, until I gave her the verbal okay. Then she'd reach out, daintily take the cheese, and chew it slowly, as if to savor the unnatural taste.
I was always impressed how she let her polite demeanor slip. Sandy never barked at me. She never begged. And though she probably wanted to employ the snatch-and-gobble approach, much like Murphy, she refrained. The mutt showed perfect manners, because she was a lady and part Lab and being such, was inherently well-behaved.
Murphy is the complete opposite. When it comes to cheese, Murphy doesn't care if he gets yelled at. He doesn't care if he's being pushy or obnoxious. He runs in circles, he jumps at me. He barks, incessantly. If I don't give in to his demands (Mom, I'm not kidding, I want the cheese NOW), he becomes impatient and anxious. He whines. He'll mope. He turns into a single minded, annoying mess.
I ignore him. It's not easy, but I refuse to acknowledge his abhorrent cheese-induced behavior. Murphy can bark and drool and run his big, clumsy body into me as much as he wants, but he's not getting the cheese. He's not getting the cheese until I'm ready to give it to him, and I'm only ready to give it to him after he's settled down and shown me that he's willing to work for the treat.
And work for it, he will.
Mozzarella is the only reason why Murphy knows his commands. "Sit," "stay," "lie down," "wait"...they're all in Murphy's head because I exploited his love for string cheese. Sure, I've thrown in a Kraft Single every once in a while. Some days (like today) I don't have any Mozzarella handy, and I resort to the bright orange squares, but I stay away from them as much as I can. American cheese is expensive. String cheese, in comparison, costs less. It's Murphy's "you worked for it" reward, after he's shown me that yes, he actually does remember his basic obedience.
I don't remember the very first time I broke out the Mozz. I do remember I started using it somewhat frequently the summer I bought Murphy's E-collar, almost two years ago. He escaped from the house one evening and almost got hit by a car. Despite intensive and continual training, my dog hadn't really picked up any understanding of simple commands, like "sit." After discussing options with the vet, I opted for a traffic-cone orange E-collar, most often used in field training or hunting. The E-collar device was expensive, and I felt like a bad dog Mom for resorting to electricity to enforce the commands, but I knew Murphy. The dog means well, but he's really dumb. He runs into walls and trips over his feet and learns either through positive reinforcement or fright. The E-collar was a combination of both: it'd startle him enough to reinforce what he wasn't supposed to do, like leave the yard, while Milkbones reinforced his understanding and follow-through of commands.
Pretty much, Murphy would get a nick every time he bolted, and a cookie every time he listened.
In theory, it should have worked. The day the E-collar arrived, I put it around Murphy's neck, marched him down to the backyard, and presented him with tons of doggy cookies. He listened and followed commands and then, after five minutes, got bored and tuned me out. I nicked him with the hand-held E-collar remote control. He shook his head in annoyance, and then bolted.
It became readily apparent that the Milkbone dog biscuits weren't going to cut it.
After I caught the dog, who had raced into the woods and proceeded to eat God knows what, we went back into the house and sat in front of the fridge. I offered his nose a variety of enticing scents: celery and green beans, stale chicken and some cantaloupe. He was unenthusiastic. I was frustrated.
And then I thought of cheese.
There wasn't any American cheese in the cheese container, but I found a stick of string cheese. I offered it, still-wrapped, to Murphy, who tried to eat it, plastic and all. Finally, I'd found the trigger. I dragged myself off the kitchen floor and Murphy scrambled, jumping and barking and begging all the way back outside. The second we hit the back yard, I broke out the Mozzarella, stripped off a slice, and dangled it above his nose. The dog's butt was on the ground before I even finished the word "sit."
Now, Murphy knows his obedience. He knows tricks. He's still a monster, but at least he listens. Well...he listens some of the time. Only if there's cheese.
I find his behavior interesting. Before I got Murphy, I'd never seen a dog go gaga for cheese. Sandy, the still-kicking-at-14 family dog, loves it when we slip her a piece of our Kraft Single, but she's never turned into a bouncing, half-crazed mongrel with big, bulging eyes and spit-coated teeth. When I pulled out the cheese box--a broken-topped, square plastic container my mother bought sometime during the 90's--she would run to her food bowl, sit quietly, and wait. I'd take my time; break the cheese in half, walk over to her, and make eye contact before lowering my hand and offering her the treat. She'd refuse to look at the cheese, like she'd been trained, until I gave her the verbal okay. Then she'd reach out, daintily take the cheese, and chew it slowly, as if to savor the unnatural taste.
I was always impressed how she let her polite demeanor slip. Sandy never barked at me. She never begged. And though she probably wanted to employ the snatch-and-gobble approach, much like Murphy, she refrained. The mutt showed perfect manners, because she was a lady and part Lab and being such, was inherently well-behaved.
Murphy is the complete opposite. When it comes to cheese, Murphy doesn't care if he gets yelled at. He doesn't care if he's being pushy or obnoxious. He runs in circles, he jumps at me. He barks, incessantly. If I don't give in to his demands (Mom, I'm not kidding, I want the cheese NOW), he becomes impatient and anxious. He whines. He'll mope. He turns into a single minded, annoying mess.
I ignore him. It's not easy, but I refuse to acknowledge his abhorrent cheese-induced behavior. Murphy can bark and drool and run his big, clumsy body into me as much as he wants, but he's not getting the cheese. He's not getting the cheese until I'm ready to give it to him, and I'm only ready to give it to him after he's settled down and shown me that he's willing to work for the treat.
And work for it, he will.
Mozzarella is the only reason why Murphy knows his commands. "Sit," "stay," "lie down," "wait"...they're all in Murphy's head because I exploited his love for string cheese. Sure, I've thrown in a Kraft Single every once in a while. Some days (like today) I don't have any Mozzarella handy, and I resort to the bright orange squares, but I stay away from them as much as I can. American cheese is expensive. String cheese, in comparison, costs less. It's Murphy's "you worked for it" reward, after he's shown me that yes, he actually does remember his basic obedience.
I don't remember the very first time I broke out the Mozz. I do remember I started using it somewhat frequently the summer I bought Murphy's E-collar, almost two years ago. He escaped from the house one evening and almost got hit by a car. Despite intensive and continual training, my dog hadn't really picked up any understanding of simple commands, like "sit." After discussing options with the vet, I opted for a traffic-cone orange E-collar, most often used in field training or hunting. The E-collar device was expensive, and I felt like a bad dog Mom for resorting to electricity to enforce the commands, but I knew Murphy. The dog means well, but he's really dumb. He runs into walls and trips over his feet and learns either through positive reinforcement or fright. The E-collar was a combination of both: it'd startle him enough to reinforce what he wasn't supposed to do, like leave the yard, while Milkbones reinforced his understanding and follow-through of commands.
Pretty much, Murphy would get a nick every time he bolted, and a cookie every time he listened.
In theory, it should have worked. The day the E-collar arrived, I put it around Murphy's neck, marched him down to the backyard, and presented him with tons of doggy cookies. He listened and followed commands and then, after five minutes, got bored and tuned me out. I nicked him with the hand-held E-collar remote control. He shook his head in annoyance, and then bolted.
It became readily apparent that the Milkbone dog biscuits weren't going to cut it.
After I caught the dog, who had raced into the woods and proceeded to eat God knows what, we went back into the house and sat in front of the fridge. I offered his nose a variety of enticing scents: celery and green beans, stale chicken and some cantaloupe. He was unenthusiastic. I was frustrated.
And then I thought of cheese.
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| Lie Down |
Now, Murphy knows his obedience. He knows tricks. He's still a monster, but at least he listens. Well...he listens some of the time. Only if there's cheese.
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