Of Moving, and Treading

I started running after Murphy.

Not literally, though there were times I did find myself chasing him up and down the street. I started running for pleasure after Murphy started running, for exercise.

It was the only way to drain all of his energy.

Murphy is, and has always has been, a very demanding creature. He’s high energy, a highly energetic dog, which means his body—and his brain—never stop moving. As a puppy, Murphy would literally bounce around the house, four feet leaving the ground as he bunny hopped from room to room. He’d bounce until he grew bored, and then he'd go to the basement stairs, where he would run up and down, up and down, over and over and over.

For a solid twenty minutes, Murphy would race up and down the stairs.

Then he’d stop.

And then he’d start racing around the house. He'd tear around the living room, kick up the Oriental rug with his back paws, and run to the dining room, where he would clumsily knock over everything on the coffee table. His toenails would scrabble across the kitchen floor as he spun circles around the island, and dig gouges when he would go so fast he couldn't stop. After a half-hour of continuous, thunderous noise, there would be silence, and stillness.

And then, a cat would streak by. The ground would shake as Murphy came charging around the corner, and  I would have to literally jump out of the way—onto the banister, down the stairs, onto a chair—to avoid any form of bodily injury. He'd chase the cat, and bark when it escaped, and my sanity could only handle so much.

Murphy was crazy.

He was exhausting.

Exhausting to watch, exhausting to listen to, and parts of me felt bad that he only seemed to really enjoy running around when he was inside. I did everything I could to ensure he had enough outside stimulation. When the weather was nice, we went down to Leesylvania State Park and practiced swimming. We took walks with friends, went and played with big dogs, and played fetch in large, fenced in areas. Murphy liked being outside—he didn’t fetch so much as watch the ball fly in one direction and then take off in another—but hated exercising outside. When we’d go out for a walk, he would, at some point, stop, lie down, and refuse to get back up. I thought of everything to get him moving again: water, food, a high-pitched, enthusiastic voice. Nothing worked. In the end, I had to lift him back onto his feet and half carry him all the way back home.

It was frustrating for both of us. Murphy’s a mover—feet going, tongue hanging sideways out of his mouth—who doesn’t enjoy going anywhere. He loves meeting dogs, and likes his trips out with his English Mastiff best friend, Jameson, but would rather stay at home and run around the house, or right outside of it. At a year old, he was the same way. He preferred the familiarity of home, of the stairs and grooves in the backyard, over the smells and sounds and openness of the dog park. The only problem with letting him move at home, was he went into the neighbor's yards. He tore up the hardwood floors. He ran furrows into the carpet. He dented the walls.

Until I bought the shock collar, I couldn't trust Murphy outside. When I limited the racing in the house, he would get into trouble. The day I stopped his up-the-stairs-down-the-stairs routine, Murphy raided the cat boxes, ripped up graduate school paperwork, chewed the tongue off my mother’s brand new L.L.Bean boot, and ate one of my a credit cards and twenty dollars in cash. It was obvious that the only way to keep him out of trouble was to somehow keep him moving.

But how? How do you keep an 80-pound monster moving, without really moving?

Two words: the treadmill.

My stepfather, Frank, had bought one for my mother, an avid runner, the Christmas before Murphy arrived. Mom used the treadmill, though relatively infrequently, so it sat unused in the basement. I’d seen dogs running on the treadmill on TV, and figured if Murphy could master the command “out”—where he has to leave the kitchen entirely and lie down on the rug in the family room—the first time I taught it to him, he’d probably pick up walking or running on a machine pretty quickly.

He did.

In fact, he picked up the treadmill on the very first try. All I had to do was slip on his leash and lead him to the machine. I stood beside him, like I normally do when we go for a walk, urged him onto the belt, and hit start. With me standing by his side, Murphy didn’t panic. He didn’t jump. He just stood still, and waited. He walked when the speed picked up, feet steady and sure. I stood beside him as he started to trot, watched his head start to dip, made sure his tail was still wagging as the minutes passed. After a few minutes, I unclipped his leash, and watched Murphy walk on the treadmill. He was so focused on exercising that he didn’t even notice when I moved from his side, to the couch, on the other side of the basement. When I stopped the treadmill ten minutes later, Murphy just looked at me, drool slipping from between his lips, eyes bright. He wanted more.

I gave him more. His enthusiasm for working out quickly became routine. Once in the morning, once in the evening, Murphy would go outside and then he’d come in and walk. I’d call him over to the treadmill and he’d hop onto the belt, and wait. I’d turn it onto whatever speed or incline his energy demanded, and I let him go; he’d trot or run as I worked or cooked or folded laundry. Sometimes, he’d walk for an hour. Sometimes he’d run for twenty minutes. As his energy wanes, he moves less and less. 

Now it's friends and family, sometimes even strangers, who want more. More energy. More running.

They ask: Is it okay to put your dog on the treadmill? Isn’t that cruel and unusual punishment? Does he even like it?

Show me.

I always reply the same way:

It’s been three years and countless miles. Murphy’s tail is always up, his head is always down. His eyes are bright. He likes to walk, likes to run, so much so that he has mastered the art of moving, of putting one paw in front of the other. He no longer moves, he no longer runs. He treads.

Come see: 

The Importance of Boundaries

The only way to teach Murphy that the yard had boundaries was to shock the shit out of him.

For a year, Murphy constantly ignored his “stay” and “come” commands. Once he was outside (usually by pushing his way out the front door) it was like he suddenly went deaf. I’d stand five feet away from him and call his name and the dumb dog would stare at the sky or lick his crotch or thump his tail happily against the dead grass. After a second, it’d click in his head that he wasn’t wearing a leash and could do the one thing he loves: run. He’d take off like a huge, clumsy bat out of hell, and do doughnuts in the yard. And our neighbor’s yard. And our neighbor’s neighbor’s yard.

Then he’d race to the front yard, and burn circles out there, too.

His enthusiasm for the outdoors never surprised me. Murphy didn’t grow up in the city. Until he was eight months old and shipped off to the busy suburbs of a Northern Virginia county, he lived with his mother and brother on a small family farm somewhere in Missouri. He could sleep outside, and eat outside, and run through pastures until his feet felt like they were going to fall off. He didn’t have any boundaries, until he came to live with me. Acres turned into a small, wooded backyard, and Murphy’s just a dog; he doesn’t understand the concept of space. He doesn’t understand that the yard is broken into zones, like the “belongs to the county” zone, or the “we didn’t buy that house so that’s not our property” zone. All Murphy knows is that outside smells good. He runs to those smells, before he just runs for the pleasure of it.

The need to stretch his long legs has almost gotten him hit on a few occasions. After one particularly close scare involving a black Ford F-250, I went out and bought a stake and a bright orange harness. My idiot dog wanted to run and almost get himself killed? Fine. He could run. He could run back and forth, in the backyard, all he wanted on heavy-duty dog-run cable, and look like a blissed-out, furry, four-legged traffic cone while he did it. 

Of course, the joke was on me, because Murphy slipped out of the harness and again ran towards the front yard, and the road. I bought a thirty-foot leash. Murphy somehow slipped out of that. The choke collar wasn’t an option. The regular leash was too short. I didn’t have the money for a fence, physical or electric.

The only option, besides permanently keeping the dog indoors on his treadmill, was something known as an electronic collar. It’s typically referred to as an E-collar (or the more humane sounding “Dog Training Collar”), and is a great, portable, relatively inexpensive alternative to the electric fence. Dogs who field train, like Labs or Goldens, often wear E-collars during retrieving events, because it’s a way for their handler to communicate with them. A dog runs to fetch whatever was tossed, or to flush out birds like ducks or pheasants, and then waits for the handler to press the button on the E-collar’s remote control. The E-collar will briefly “nick” the dog with electricity and give the Retriever the information it needs, like which direction to head and what bird it should or should not pick up.

They're a useful training tool, and have started to find their way into the homes of difficult dogs. Of course, like everything concerning dogs these days, the E-collar is controversial. Some believe that it’s cruel to electrically zap dogs. Some believe the shocks are unnecessary. Some think E-collars shouldn't be available to regular dog owners, because regular dog owners don't always do the research, and end up hurting their pets.

I agreed with the arguments against E-collars. At least, I did until I had to actually use one. It wasn’t an easy decision: I researched, like a good dog owner, and felt sick to my stomach at having to invest in something that would give my dog an electric shock. How freaking inhumane. But, really, what were my options? I didn’t have the money to put up any type of fence, I’d already tried everything else, and there was no way in hell I was going to give my dog away.

The only thing I could do was buy an E-collar and hope that the shock would at least distract Murphy, so he could finally hear me. I bought a bright orange SportDog FieldTrainer 400, which had a remote that allowed me to change the level of nicks Murphy would receive, every time I pushed the button. (The lower the "nick," the less electricity goes through the E-collar's prongs, which means the dog feels less of an electric shock.) It took over a week to arrive. While I waited, I bit off all my nails. I cut my hair. I watched Murphy escape the house twice and stopped feeling bad about introducing electricity into the dog training.

When the E-collar finally arrived, I pushed a happy Murphy out of the way, sucked in some air for courage, and pressed the collar's metal prongs to my forearm. No sparks flew. I didn’t have scorched skin. The shock literally felt like someone was pressing a vibrating phone to my arm. Obviously, I was stumped. I couldn’t figure out what the hell everyone was talking about. Controversial? I didn’t think so, at least not the piece of equipment I had purchased. Murphy wasn’t going to get hurt. Me resorting to the E-collar wasn’t inhumane. In fact, it was the most humane thing I could have done for my dog: Murphy picked up the boundary training almost immediately. Within three days, he had stopped running into everyone’s yard, came the first (or second) time I called, and generally stopped pushing past people when they opened the front door.

It’s been two years. Murphy knows his boundaries. He listens. He obeys. He still wears his E-collar; it's always turned off.

What he doesn't know won't kill him.

Behold, the power of cheese

Sit Pretty

Shake

 

 

 

Working Out

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.

Lie Down

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.

Scheduled Sundays

Sunday is my favorite day of the week. I love the relaxing atmosphere: open windows, coffee and an assortment of breakfast items that are leisurely made or eaten until around noon, football games, loose yoga clothes, and once evening hits, the ambiance of candles and oil burners. Murphy gets a break from the treadmill and spends his time sleeping or basking in the sun or watching me weave in and out of rooms, attempting to accomplish one task or another.

He hasn't always been so quiet. As a puppy, he had a list of bad habits: raiding the litter box for "cat truffles," stealing the can of wet cat food, stealing my socks, chewing holes into various undergarments, trying to lick any breakfast item on the kitchen table, tearing up any and all paperwork on the floor, escaping from the house and eating all pieces of animal crap that's on our neighbor's lawn...and so on, and so forth. The gross stuff was endless, and I have no doubt that they were the main reason Murphy was returned to the breeder. No one wants to put up with a problem puppy. No one can relax with a problem puppy unless, of course, you're me.

I am a strict dog owner. I owe a lot of my A-type personality to my no-nonsense upbringing, and although I've mellowed over the years, when it comes to the dog, I like the idea of keeping a very short leash. Since the first few months I brought him home, Murphy has followed the same routine: potty, treadmill, food, sleep. With age comes more freedom, so there are times, like today, when he's allowed to skip his exercise and head straight to breakfast. Other Sundays I've brought him to the dog park, or to a friend's house, or let him lounge beneath my chair at the local Starbucks.

We relax. Me with my Pumpkin Spice latte, and Murphy with his bowl of water, because the strict routine is enforced with intense training. Murphy knows his basic obedience commands (as well as others, like "Go potty" and "bedtime") because I've drilled them into his somewhat non-existent brain. It wasn't exactly the easiest process; Murphy is extremely impulsive. His attention span only lasts a few seconds, and then he's off doing whatever he'd like to do, instead of everything I want him to do. My life as a dog owner has, at times, been frustrating and stressful and overwhelming. But Murphy is food motivated.  Over time, the repetitive nature of "sit" and "stay" have evolved primarily from slipped pieces of cheese, and become permanently ingrained in his head. We've curbed the less desirable behaviors, though they haven't been entirely eliminated. It's been three years and Murphy still eats shit. He still chews on paperwork, and he steals the cat food whenever the opportunity arises.

But he does it less.

He's less prone to push his way out of the house. He doesn't chase the cats as much anymore. Only some of my clothes have holes, and I can guilt trip him out of the kitchen, instead of physically having to remove him. Sometimes, he'll watch out the window, instead of constantly bark. Mostly, he just sleeps.

And while he's sleeping, I drink the last of my Starbucks coffee. I write my blog and listen to the game and soon, I'll light some candles. Dinner will come and Murphy may or may not go on the treadmill. He'll go out and then go to bed and once again, I'll think about how far he's come since he first came home.

It's become routine.