Cool, Calm & Contentious - Merrill Markoe [47]
Time and again I watched as Mr. Millan moved a dog’s collar higher up, to a spot just behind the dog’s ears, as a cure for the human caretaker’s complaints about being yanked along behind the dog during walks like some kind of improperly weighted racing sled in the Iditarod. In the context of the show, it was nothing short of miraculous the way that collar maneuver instantly transformed the newly enlightened animal from Vin Diesel to Anna Wintour. In a video moment, the once problematic dog would begin strolling languidly beside (and slightly behind) his or her calm-assertive owner.
So after months of struggling with the rude leash manners of my dog, Hedda, I decided to give his method a try. I followed Mr. Millan’s advice and slid Hedda’s collar up behind her ears. And behold: it worked! But only because she was now uncomfortable and puzzled. After about ten minutes of tiptoeing beside and slightly ahead of the oddly subdued, overly upright, and lightly choking Hedda, I decided that this version of a walk with her was exactly the same amount of fun as accompanying a postoperative patient and their mobile IV unit on a stroll down the hospital hall the day after gallbladder surgery. In other words, it was about half as exhilarating as it had been when she was out of control and barreling down the street, filled with such an uncontainable amount of joie de vivre that she was pulling me like a waterskier. At least the old style of walk let me derive vicarious thrills from watching a creature in the throes of unbridled gleeful interest in everything.
Then I started thinking about how part of the fun of hanging out with another species is, for me, readjusting my eyes to see the world as they do. Every day during the serving of breakfast, when one of my dogs becomes so excited that she rears up on her hind legs and walks backward into a table, I marvel anew at how deep her excitement is in that moment. I am impressed by how much she loves eating (while also astounded by what an unbelievable pinhead she is to not know that the table is going to be there again the next day).
Sure, I could insist that she and all my other dogs sit quietly at attention while I display for them my considerable breakfast preparation skills. (And they are considerable. I believe my homemade “dog loaf” is the finest in the land.) My guess is that Mr. Millan and his staff probably require rapt attentiveness every time they make an appearance in front of the group. Yes, it would eliminate all the moaning and the pawing at the backs of my legs. But my dogs’ authentic responses amuse me. And I’m pretty sure that the divot in my calf will heal in time.
Eventually I started wondering, Who exactly is this Mr. Know-It-All Dog Whisperer, anyway? And why am I taking his advice while he is ignoring mine?
A little research* revealed no university-sanctioned credentials or important government titles or grants. Just a self-taught guy who, since childhood in his native Mexico, seemed to have such a “remarkable rapport with dogs” that he was given the nickname El Perrero, “the dog boy.”
Damn! I said to myself. That is not all that impressive. Plenty of people think that I, too, have remarkable rapport with dogs. And there are other parallels: I have no credentials or grants. Plus, oddly enough, my childhood nickname was El Perrero Que Tiene una Vagina, even though I spent my early childhood in New Jersey. What’s to keep me from calling myself an expert and getting a show? After all, it only makes good sense! How many times have I adopted an abused, unwanted creature from a shelter and transformed him into a cherished, beloved family member? How often have I turned an insecure,