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 Thanksgiving Thief

Last Thanksgiving, Murphy ate an entire block of cheese.

To be honest, I couldn’t really blame him. My family, like most families, celebrates holidays with some form of delicious appetizer: stuffed olives and marinated mushrooms; fruits and nuts, fresh or dried or candied—it depends on what pairs nicely with the wine; interesting Scottish concoctions, such as haggis or mini shepherds pies or whatever my stepfather picked up at one of his Scottish Highland Games competitions; oysters on the half shell, plucked and shucked courtesy of my grandfather, an avid, elderly clammer. The appetizers are always good, sometimes better than the big meal, and Thanksgiving of 2009 was no different. Everyone decided against bacon wrapped chestnuts, because they were more of a December food, and we’d grown tired of the raw bar. Instead, we opted for something a bit more simple and refined: a nice cheese platter.  

Everyone was excited. My siblings and I are cheesers, courtesy of my mother, who is the biggest cheese of them all. I grew up on blocks of Swiss, thick slices of Cheddar. American was quickly snubbed for the softer Brie; Mozzarella didn’t even last an afternoon. We ate whatever Mom liked, and eventually developed a palate of our own, so the Thanksgiving appetizer suggestions were long and detailed: aged gruyere, the kind that tastes like an earthy caramel; creamy camembert to spread on some type of herbed cracker; smoked gouda, which we could eat by itself; sweet baby Swiss, to pair with fresh slices of apple and pear.

In the end, our spread included a very large, very delicious baked Brie, a thick wedge of creamy blue cheese, and everyone’s favorite cheese, a tangy, strange combination of cheddar, Swiss, and Parmesan, called Dubliner. Dubliner was a cheese I ran across right before I went to Ireland for three months, and it had a texture—hard, with small white calcium lactate crystals—that I’d never encountered before. The taste, sharp and mature, combined with the crystallized crunch made the cheese, already an addicting snack, irresistible.

Apparently Murphy felt the same way.

Thanksgiving afternoon rolled around; the turkey was pulled out of the oven and placed on the stove to rest, and my family, as well as some of Mom’s relatives, pulled out a chilled bottle of white wine. Glasses clanked with amber liquid, a bowl of roasted peanuts randomly appeared, and everyone moved into the family room to settle in spots around the coffee table. I squeezed myself between the cold fireplace hearth and one of my brothers, and as I waited for a slice of granny smith and blue cheese, watched as the contentedness reached the dogs; tugged them away from the smells of turkey and potatoes, and led them straight into our laps. Sandy curled up with my mother, and Murphy’s nose turned in the direction of food, like it always did. A few warning noises came from throughout the room, a sharp clearing of throats, and I pulled Murphy to me. After a wide-eyed, suffering look, he settled at my feet, away from trouble, and eventually fell asleep with my toes curled in his still-long fur.

For however long, we ate cheese. We talked and laughed and the warmth from the wine, and my dog, allowed for a realization of fulfillment, a capture of tangible moments that I still remember, a year later.

Of course, it didn’t last. Murphy was there, after all. Somewhere between talk of carving turkey and me basking in the perfection of the holiday, my dog startled out of sleep; leapt to his feet, violently jostling my wine glass on the way up. His head whipped this way and that, eyes landing on the unguarded cheese platter, on the fresh block of Dubliner someone had just placed onto the wooden cutting board. Faster than I’d ever seen, he was out of my lap and halfway across the room, our favorite appetizer wedged firmly in his mouth. I could only blink after him, the abrupt shift in mood like a cold, wet slap in the face.

 

He made it to the living room, a few rooms over, before anyone processed what the hell had happened. By the time I realized my dog, the good dog who had been so sweetly sleeping at my feet, had just stolen the entire block of Dubliner, my brothers had already run out of the room. Their voices boomed down the hallway, mingling with the sound of Murphy’s toenails as they dug furrows into the wood floor. I didn’t bother getting up; I sat on the floor, drank some more of my wine, and watched as Murphy raced around the house, tail wagging furiously, obviously enjoying the game of chase.

It would have been easy to run after the dog and yell and reprimand and tell him what good dogs are and are not supposed to do. But, what would have been the point? Not even five minutes before, I had been enjoying him, enjoying us, and it seemed entirely against the holiday to be ungrateful for the comfort and love he continually provided.

The scolding, at least by me, could wait.

Besides, he was only doing what my brothers and I had done our entire lives: Murphy was taking after his mom.

Re-seeing the Dog

Murphy’s been unusually quiet these past few weeks.

I can’t really figure it out. I know he’s not sick, because he scarfs down his food so fast I’ve had to start splitting his meals into quarter cup portions. I can tell he’s not depressed: Murphy wags his tail nonstop, all day long. He wags it when he’s in the car, on his bed, at soccer games, and when he’s in the middle of being scolded. He wags his tail so much I’m surprised it hasn’t fallen off. Murphy isn’t unhappy. I get kissed every morning when I roll over to say good morning, and get a warm lapful of sleepy dog right before I put him to bed. He doesn’t think I’m mad at him. He’s not feeling confined or cooped up. I’m positive he’s not lonely.

So what’s going on with my typically unruly dog?

The vet says it’s age.

Murphy will be three and a half the beginning of December, which means he’s permanently out of the puppy stage. He is now officially an adolescent, one that is making a steady progression towards middle age. The antics are slowing down, though won’t completely disappear, because things like tearing up people’s blog critiques is just part of his personality. But he has mellowed out. These days, he’d rather sleep than play, snuggle than wrestle, and lie at my feet instead of try to bowl me over. He’s not a quiet dog, but has developed a quieter aura, and it’s this quietness, the still moments when Murphy just sits and watches, that makes him perfect for therapy work. 

Murphy as a therapy dog. Who would have thought?

Certainly not me. I was introduced to the idea a year ago, through various individuals. The vet recommended applying for a Canine Good Citizen certificate, after seeing Murphy’s non-reaction when a fourteen month old ran over, grabbed his face, and planted a big wet one on his nose. My coworker and the owner of Murphy’s best friend, a Bull Mastiff named Jameson, also suggested getting my dog certified, so he could work with some of our school children. Strangers, when they aren’t running away from the darkness of my dog’s coat, have even asked if he did therapy work. They’ll pet Murphy, who sits still under their hand, offering a slow kiss every so often, and ask what places he visits.

He didn’t visit any place, because for the first two years, Murphy was a behavioral mess. But the more people asked, the more I noticed the qualities that made him perfect for healing work: patience, particularly around kids and seniors; the uncanny ability to sense when someone is sick or upset; the need to touch and be touched. There’s more, of course, that are so often masked by his bad behavior. Murphy watches out for the fourteen-year-old family dog, and refuses to leave her side when she’s having a hard day. He tries, sometimes in frustration, to do the obedience commands right the first time. Murphy accepts whoever he meets, without qualms or hesitation, and he loves. From the bottom of his too-big feet to the tip of his dripping wet nose, he loves everyone.

And, for some odd reason, everyone loves him. 

So, we've been training. The only way Murphy can become a certified therapy dog, or a dog who visits people at the hospital or in nursing homes, is to pass the Canine Good Citizen Test. The requirements, which range everywhere from politely saying hello to a stranger to not freaking out when someone walks by with a gurney, are intense. Murphy, as big as he is, freaks out over everything. A squirrel drops a nut in the woods while he's going to the bathroom? He jumps. Someone starts their motorcycle outside? He scrambles. The baby gate falls over and make a loud clanging noise? He bolts.

The only way Murphy (and, subsequently, me) will pass the CGC Test is if we practice. Constantly. So, I bring him everywhere. We go to the grocery store and spend time at Scottish Highland Games and he's with me on every Starbucks run, for socialization. We practice greeting scary objects, like crutches and skateboards and baby strollers up and down the street, once at the dog park, and whenever he has a puppy play date. Of course, I thought it would be a struggle preparing him. Murphy didn't do well with his initial training; it was going to be a nightmare teaching him the concept of being a "good" dog.

But, be it age or the sheer desire to please, Murphy has taken everything in stride. He behaves. He follows commands and listens to my voice and stops whenever a stranger comes up and asks to pet him, even for just a moment. Murphy sits and waits; lets unfamiliar fingers slide through his fur, over his nose, and through the fringe of his ears. He listens to secrets, and the wishes of little kids, and the hum of words that whisper his way. In these moments when Murphy belongs to the person kneeling in front of him, I notice his demeanor, the cathartic stillness he freely offers, and can't help but wonder if he knows what he's doing. I can't help but wonder when my dog turned into a normal dog. A therapy dog.

A good dog.

And when that stranger leaves, picks themselves up off the street or patch of grass or carpeted rug and moves on, Murphy just watches, and waits. For me. For someone else. And I know: he's been a good dog, all along.

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.

Seeing the Syndrome

Murphy had no clue yesterday was Halloween. 

He could feel it, though. He raced around the house, more so than usual, and barked at me as I moved back and forth, from room to room. I tried to ignore him. The decorations were relatively non-existent this year, though I did manage to find a few pumpkins to strategically place on the table, and vat of homemade butternut squash soup was simmering on the stove. Eventually, the rumbling, the sharp yips and yaps, the constant tripping over his newly shaved body became frustrating, and I gave up. I crawled on the floor with him; rubbed his belly and ran my fingers through his soft ears, and contemplated his costume.

I’m not the type who goes out and purchases a sixty-dollar jersey or a stupid, frilly uniform, but I can imagine what the dog would look like if I were: a bandit, a bear, a dinosaur. I can see Murphy waddling around the kitchen in a bright red lobster costume or begging for dinner as an over-sized, mustard-splashed hot-dog. When he was a puppy, I almost dressed him up as Yoda. Last year, when he went through his terrible two’s, I was a card swipe away from making him a devil.

If anything, it would have been accurate.

But all those are too expensive, and a form of cruel and unusual punishment. Murphy hates anything strapped, clipped, or harnessed to his body. He mopes, hangs his head in embarrassment, and curls up in a corner where he thinks no one will notice him. He looks sad and pathetic and it makes me feel bad. So, I pull out the headbands. He hardly notices them; I can get my pictures and have a good laugh, while he runs around the house, happy and oblivious. Last Halloween, instead of horns, he wore Martian eyeballs that bounced as he jumped around. The year before that, he showed his Irish pride in the form of green-glittered shamrocks that bobbed back and forth over his head.

I like going the headband route. Headbands make Murphy look cute. They emphasize his dopiness and his toothy dog grin. The glitter makes his eyes bigger and the bright colors are a great contrast to his black fur. He looks funny. Friendly. Absolutely approachable and like a great family dog.

To the kids, however, Murphy looks like a monster.

Big and black, with huge, fake alien eyeballs that move back and forth, he could be a demon, or maybe a werewolf, content to kill. Though he's neither, the kids are always afraid. Murphy will wag his tail and go to give a sloppy “hello” kiss, and the trick-or-treaters think he’s about to lunge, or worse, eat them or their candy. They scream or cower next to their parents. Some fathers give disapproving looks. Others, the dog lovers, comfort their kids and pet Murphy themselves. Mostly, the parents take their kids and leave and Murphy is kicked down to the lonely basement.

It happens all the time, this “frightened of the big, black dog” mentality. People are scared of Murphy, and I have no idea why.

Take this, for example: A few weeks after bringing him home, my stepfather took Murphy for a walk. The dog was clutzy back then, with too-big-paws and a tongue that seemed to roll unhindered between top jaw and bottom. Murphy looked harmless, and his uneven gait made it apparent that he was just a pup. Still, one woman took it upon herself to step off the sidewalk and into the busy road, as a way to give my bumbling dog a huge, wide berth. When my stepfather mentioned that Murphy was just a puppy, the woman shot back that he was big and black and looked “really mean.”

Mean? My dog looked mean?

Other people feel the same way. The first time I brought Murphy to the groomer’s, a man asked about my “Hollywood pooch,” but refused to come closer than ten feet, because he had a fear of “big, mean lookin’ dogs.” Two summers ago, I went hiking at Sky Meadows State Park, and more than one jogger went off the trail, half-way down a ditch, just to avoid a run-in with my hot and panting mongrel. And kids, who are probably the most accepting of animals, either love my dog or run screaming from him, as evident by past Halloweens, soccer games, and one or two doggy play dates.

The assumption that my dog is mean, or unfriendly, was and still is baffling. I could understand the hesitation about his size. Murphy is tall, only an inch or two shorter than his Bull Mastiff best friend, and can easily lick my face when he stands on his two back feet. Throw in his weight and fluffy winter coat, and I could be walking a small black bear. I don’t notice him anymore, and scoff when people tell me he’s big, but to someone who may not have a dog at home, Murphy’s a giant. I also understand the uncertainty people feel around a strange dog. I’d probably keep my kids close, too, or push them behind me when a big dog came lumbering our way. But what about my dog gives people the impression that he's somehow unfriendly or even malicious? There's not an unloving bone in his body. His face is as friendly as they get, with melts-your-heart, chocolate brown eyes and a black, wet nose. He likes to play and snuggle and is always happy to see a young child.

So, where are people getting this "mean" impression?

The only thing I can think of is his color. Murphy's a salt-and-pepper black. Dark, blending in with the autumn shadows, and invisible when he's lying at the front window. He doesn't look scary, but people think he's scary, because black dogs like Murphy have been given an unfounded reputation.

Television and movies often place black or mostly black dogs into villain/evil-dog roles. The Resident Evil franchise has zombie Dobermans, entirely black with decay, repeatedly trying to tear the faces off the protagonists. Alpha, the evil dog in the children's movie Up, was also a Doberman. Literature, particularly folklore, also paints black dogs in an unforgiving light. Hellhounds are the most common, found in everything from The Hounds of Baskerville to Harry Potter and are often illustrated as large and black, with glowing red eyes, savagely long teeth, and a personality fit for the devil. In many cases, they are the bringers of death.

Whether in literature or the media, these dogs are all have one thing in common: very nasty personalities. The fictional idea that "black dogs mean trouble" translates to real life. When someone sees a big, black dog, they automatically think of aggression. Some link the color with bleakness, depression, or white-versus-dark, good-versus-evil. As a result, many dogs, such as Dobermans, Rotties, black Labs, and dark Great Danes, are overlooked in shelters. Thousands are killed ever year, and it's all because of a phenomenon known as Big Black Dog Syndrome.

This phenomenon affects me. When people look at my dog, they automatically assume he's aggressive, because of his color, or that he can't be gentle or calm, because of his size. Obviously, both are untrue, though it's difficult (and just plain exhausting) to try to tell that to the multitude of strangers who constantly and continually veer out of our way. There's very little I can do about how people perceive Murphy, though I've found one thing that seems to work: Halloween.

For us, Halloween isn't just once a year, but every day of the year. Every day, Murphy wears a fun, bright, collar, ID tag, and bandanna, that screams "I LOVE PEOPLE!" It's as close to dressing him up as I can get, without scaring the little kids.

To keep myself entertained, I frequently switch up his costume: during the summer, he runs around in Red Sox accessories; fall is meant for turkeys and the New England Patriots, and winter is a mix of jingle bells and Santa. I'm still searching for the perfect spring theme, and though I'd rather not emasculate my dog any more than I already have, I have a feeling once May rolls around, Murphy will be sporting a cute, hand-sewn flower collar and bandanna set.

People seem to react to it, to this type of costume, so Halloween has become our normal. I'd like to think that one day, Murphy will be able to walk around in a plain, nondescript collar, but I have to be realistic: people will always see color before personality. They see The Syndrome, instead of The Dog, and as a result, miss out on some of the best companions the canine world has to offer.

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.