Chapter 5 Growing Up

Once we got home, we returned to a more or less normal life with our two pets. As they grew up, they developed their own styles and personalities. It had been an ongoing process, but adolescence seemed to accelerate the changes. Unfortunately, many of these changes were for the worse.

As the runt of the litter, Finn had always been timid. He quickly realized though that his doting new parents were quick to lavish attention and slow to punish, so he took on the role of the mischief maker. He started stealing food, jumping up and down to get attention, and using his cute puppy smile to manipulate us. All of that said, he showed some very admirable traits as well. He always maintained a kindly personality-- never nipping and steadfastly refusing to be aggressive with people or other animals. He even deferred to the cat by giving right of way to his dog bed to his smaller companion. The cat merely had to walk up and meow to make Finn vacate the comfy bed for him.

Shake, on the other hand, continued to be reserved. His stand-offishness was combined with a somewhat mean streak, and he was quick to swipe at those who offended his sensibilities or who tried to pick up the cute kitten. His constantly dour look provided a sharp counterpoint to his still kittenish body, British Shorthairs being slow maturing cats that sometimes take nearly five years to achieve their full stature. He occasionally swiped at the dog when he was too slow making way, and that was the only behavior for which he got into serious trouble-- well, scolded in any case.

By now Finn had grown to his full height, although his frame had not quite filled out. He was a bit of a thief and a sneak, but a very gentle soul. So gentle, in fact, that I was never quite certain if he might have been a Buddhist monk in a previous incarnation. A very hyperactive and clownish monk, but a monk none the less.

Nevertheless, Buddhist monk or not, we decided that some training might be invaluable to break some of Finn's less than perfect habits. He had learned how to sit, how to fetch, how to go to the bathroom outside; however, he still did not come when called, used his leash to try to dislocate your arm whenever he saw someone or something interesting on his walk, and never quite understood that sitting on some one's lap was no longer o.k. once he tipped the scales at seventy pounds. We looked around in Merritt for a puppy obedience class, but were not able to find anything.

Eventually, through Nicole's parents, we were able to find a kindly retired lady from Kelowna who was offering classes that looked interesting to us. It was somewhat out of the way for us, but the dream of a well behaved dog that did what we asked was a powerful incentive. After a quick phone call, we were enrolled in her Wednesday classes.

After work Wednesday, we got into the cramped RX-7. Nicole drove, I sat in the passenger seat, and the seventy pound dog crawled into my lap. The hour and a half trip to the empty warehouse that served as a training facility was as comfortable as was relatively possible. We all piled out of the car, stretched our legs in the parking lot, and then headed in for the first day of puppy school.

We were the first to arrive, so went into the school. It was basically an empty warehouse with a wide open dog area. It had several windows, so the room was well lit. We immediately recognized the trainer-- an older lady who was putting a large German Shepherd through his paces in the middle of the room.

Being the first students to arrive, we approached the trainer to ask if there was anything that we needed to be doing with Finn, who was intently watching her and the other dog. As we neared, she sent her dog off with a word. He paced off to the corner and layed down-- acknowledging Finn's presence with only a casual glance. Impressed by this display of control, we suspected that we had chosen the right place.

After making introductions, we talked a little about the class. She told us that she was a retired school teacher who now trained dogs in her spare time. She had gained her experience through years of dog ownership and lessons. When asked about any particular problems that we might be experiencing with Finn, I mentioned that he sometimes sniffed the butts of house guests who passed gas. Nicole's glance let me know that this was not perhaps the kind of question that would be considered appropriate, but I was serious-- it was an embarrassing trait.

The trainer smiled at my problem, but did not give any solid advice immediately. She then explained her training method, which we had asked about previously. Her method was what attracted us most to her class. She told us that it involved: instruction, positive reinforcement, and lots of treats. We knew the best thing for our baby was positive reinforcement, despite his occasional and slight antisocial tendencies. We wanted a dog who listened to us, but who did not fear us.

As we talked, some of the other owners and puppies drifted in. Finn watched with great interest as dogs, both great and small, entered the training area. Amazingly, he controlled himself very well. We followed them into the arena where two rows of chairs faced each other. Each dog was allowed one owner, so Nicole went to the sidelines while Finn and I selected a chair.

As it was time for class to begin, the instructor had us all instruct our dogs to sit before we were to take a seat beside them and sustain the "sit" command. I remember thinking that this should be a nice, easy start to the class-- Finn being an excellent "sitter"-- I gave the command. It was not until this point in the class that I came to realize that the chair that I selected had important ramifications.

"Sit," I instructed.

Finn looked up at me with a big, dopey grin. Then he looked sideways. Then things went sideways.

As it turned out, Finn had noticed that a Sheltie was sitting nicely beside us with her elderly owner. Finn, not realizing that we were in an obedience class, decided that the Sheltie looked like a possible girlfriend prospect. He walked over to sniff the dog, but I pulled him back.

"Sit," I repeated.

Again, he looked at me with his dumb grin. Then his head turned back toward his new friend. Rather than sitting, he pulled the leash taut-- straining to meet this fascinating new acquaintance. The lady smiled benevolently at Finn and I, so I smiled back while trying to restrain him.

At this point, most of the dogs were seated. It being a beginners' class, some others were having difficulty as well. Of course, I only noticed my ill mannered pet. Fortunately, the trainer walked over at this point.

With a smile she asked, "Do you need some assistance?"

"That would be great," I replied.

In a somewhat more authoritarian voice, the trainer repeated my "sit" command. Finn looked up at her, cocked his eyebrow, and grinned. Then he looked sideways at the Sheltie. Then things went sideways.

Our pup decided that it was an opportune time to visit his new girlfriend. Standing and quickly lunging toward her, his front paws went down in the universal "downward facing dog" play bow. With a quickness belied by her somewhat advanced age, the trainer reacted. Bam! Pow!

Finn found himself on his back, with the lady's hands around his throat. A low, feral growl issuing from the back of her throat. The doggy grin melted. Finn was not sure how to react, so he laid on the ground, stock still. The entire class froze for a moment-- not one of us daring to breath, lest Finn have the life throttled out of him.

Finn realized that the teacher was, indeed, serious. He calmed completely, his submission a nearly palpable thing. When the dog's little body was totally still, she let him up. She repeated her initial command, "Sit."

This time, Finn decided that it was wisest to listen to the hostile lady. He immediately sat, looking up at her with big puppy eyes without seeming to even consider looking at his new girlfriend. Deciding to build on her success, she continued by saying, "Watch," while pointing at her nose.

Putting aside the earlier violence inflicted upon his person, Finn obediently sat and watched. Remarkable both because he had never learned the command before, and more so because he graced her with his doggy smile that was usually reserved for people who had done something to make him exceptionally happy. Something like rubbing his tummy or giving him a piece of cheese. Apparently, a dog is far more forgiving than a person.

The rest of the lesson went well. Our rambunctious puppy really enjoyed training, and was always eager when we walked in the door to the dog school. His favorite part of the lessons was always the playing at the end. The chairs and the props were cleared away from the warehouse, while the dogs were allowed to socialize. The rationale for this was that it provided the dogs with, well, socialization. This was Finn's time to play with his first girlfriend-- the aforementioned Sheltie.

Ten weeks later, the course was over. We tried to maintain some of the training, but found that we were inconsistent when there was no regularly scheduled training time. Finn kept some of the important things that he learned, but much of it waned over the years. We practised the two most important "tricks" that Finn learned-- "come" and "stay". When the trainer talked to the class about the importance of training, she pointed out that these two commands could save a dog's life. Much of the learning that Nicole and I did in the course also waned over the course of months and years. Some of the important knowledge stayed with us as well. When it came time to save Finn's life; however, the crucial knowledge was neither "come" nor "stay"

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The pets filled their days sleeping, playing, and making nuisances of themselves. Every evening Finn went on his walk with us. His walks were a great way to decompress after a day of dealing with note passing and paper airplanes as a substitute teacher. Much of the time we would walk through Vogt park and down by the river. This walk was great because near dusk we had the path to ourselves for the most part, and the solitude was wonderful.

On occasion though, we would walk down towards town through our neighbourhood. This walk was a little more interactive because in a town like Merritt you were bound to run into acquaintances who wanted to talk. In addition to the people that wanted to talk, quite often there were also many dogs that either got out of their yards or were allowed to run free. Often these dogs that came out to "talk" to Finn. Usually this consisted of some butt sniffing before both parties went their separate ways.

One fall evening Finn and I set out for our usual walk. As we got to the sidewalk, I decided to go right toward the M.S.S. school yard instead of left toward the river walk. It was a little bit cool, so I was wearing my hoodie and gloves. Finn actually had a coat, but it was not cold enough to be bothered with wrestling him to get it on.

Our walk was uneventful for about a block. Fortunately for us, I looked back as we neared the corner of the second block. As I turned my head, I saw a wolf hunched low to the ground walking along the sidewalk. The beast was not ten feet behind us, and her stealthy gait showed me clearly that she was in the process of hunting something. A quick scan of the surroundings confirmed that there was no prey in the area-- other than Finn and I.

The animal crept closer. Putting one foot in front of the other, it stalked us-- not making so much as a low growl. Within a couple of seconds, she was within ten feet. At this point, I realized that my intervention was necessary, if an attack was to be avoided. I looked at the other animal, and realized that it was one of the wolf-dog hybrids that are relatively common in Merritt. I realized that I had seen her before, lying on the front steps of the little house that Finn and I were now standing in front of. She was particularly large for her breed and I could not see anything other than canine malevolence in her expression. Gazing quickly about the sidewalk for a rock or a stick, I realized that there were no weapons within easy reach.

"Get out of here," I growled while waving my hands in an attempt to ward the beast off.

My protestations were to no avail. In fact, she gave no indication of even seeing me as she bounded toward Finn. Finn, for his part, was held in place beside me by his leash. He had no ability to run, and my experience with him ensured me that he had no ability to fight.

Both dogs went down in a heap. Finn yelped, rolled onto his back, and showed his throat in a sign of submission. The larger dog grabbed his throat and began to turn her head in a tearing motion. Within seconds, I was confronted with an unpalatable choice. Either I had to hurt this dog, or my best friend would likely end up dead.

The choice was unpleasant, but surprisingly easy. I had taken years of martial arts, but had never been in a true fight-- other than childhood scuffles with my brother. Never the less, within a fraction of a second, I decided that if this dog or Finn that were to get hurt, then this dog was going to get hurt.

I wound up with my foot and delivered a heavy kick to the side of her head. Having never delivered a full force kick to a head before, I was surprised by how easily my leg followed through and the big animal's head snapped back violently. With Finn's leash still looped around one wrist, I rained down a couple more kicks before I caught the wolf-dog by the back of the neck with my left hand. Then, reaching under her chin with my right hand, I half lifted her by the throat before slamming her into the sidewalk. She stopped struggling almost instantly.

I sat atop the dog with both hands around her throat for several seconds before I was certain that she was not going to go after Finn again. I growled in a low and menacing manner, just the way that Finn's trainer had taught me when he had annoyed her in class. I then picked her up bodily and bodily threw her over the fence and into her yard. At this point, the owner finally heard what was going on. As he came out the front door, his dog darted in.

"Is there some sort of problem?" he asked.

I snapped back, "Not any more."

Not feeling like engaging in any more conversation at that point, I checked my buddy for any open wounds. The man shrugged and went back inside his house-- presumably to check his dog. In the meantime, I checked over my buddy on the sidewalk, worried that he had been injured before my intervention. I was happy to discover that I had apparently gotten to him before the other dog's teeth had broken the skin. Relieved and flushed with adrenaline, we headed home.

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That night, I spoiled Finn with extra treats and extra kisses on the nose when I tucked him in for bed. I was relieved that he had not been hurt or worse. Even though I felt terrible for hurting the other dog, I felt very good about keeping my tacit promise to take care of Finn.