The Education of Will Read online

  The time-honored conversation between a young, healthy male and an unwilling female continued until, finally, the man who’d understood that my interest was all about sound said, “But Trisha, please come to the lake with me. I will make you such beautiful noises.”

  • • • • •

  After Texas, I spent a summer in Montana recording Spanish, Basque, and Quechua-speaking sheepdog handlers and horseback riders on sprawling western sheep ranches. I can’t say why, but I don’t remember ever being frightened in Montana. Some of the time I was with family, but much of the time I was alone in isolated areas, surrounded by men who spoke foreign languages. I might have been nervous about getting good recordings, or managing the camper I pulled behind Black Bart, my beat-up pickup truck, but I never felt the kind of fear that plagued me in other places. I imagine it was in part because everyone I met was unfailingly polite. Perhaps, after growing up in Arizona, I felt more at home in the West than I had in other places. But I suspect that much of it had to do with being in Montana—Big Sky Country, they call it, and aptly so. Every evening I’d sit and watch the stars come out, bright as miniature headlights, tens of thousands of them. Every day I spent my time outside in rolling grasslands with horses, dogs, and sheep and the people who cared for them. It was one of the happiest times of my life.

  In the end, my hard work and adventures paid off. I was awarded the prestigious Allee Award in 1988 for best graduate student paper at the Animal Behavior Society annual conference. I confirmed that handlers all over the world used similar sounds to speed up and slow down working animals. I tested the hypothesis that these sounds directly influenced behavior on four litters of puppies I raised on the roof of Birge Hall, finding that, indeed, short repeated notes were more effective at teaching pups to come when called than to sit down when asked. Finally, I did nonintrusive neurological tests that showed that, after training, the pup’s brains were focused primarily on the number of notes of the signals rather than any other feature.

  I had never won anything of any note in my life, and when my name was called out at the award ceremony, I could barely walk to the stage. I have never felt so honored. But it wasn’t the award that stayed with me—it was the importance of clear communication between us and other animals. Then and there, I resolved to make the “most beautiful noises” that I could to all of the animals around me.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I had imagined that after I got my degree, I would find a job teaching at a small private college somewhere close by. But after my dissertation research, I became more attracted to a life in which I could interact with my two favorite species, people and dogs. Consulting about animals with serious behavior problems allowed me to be a teacher, a social worker, and a woman who got to work with animals all day long—without having to marry a rancher.

  In 1988 a friend/colleague and I started a business specializing in solving serious behavior problems in companion dogs. Nancy Rafetto and I knew a lot about behavior, a little about helping people with their dogs, and nothing about running a business. We began by doing house calls and working from our homes, but the late-night phone calls began to wear on us. They came in at all hours. If the problem wasn’t “Barry growled at me again, what should I do?” it was “Martha will NOT come into the house when I call her out of the backyard, and I’m missing an important meeting!”

  We opened a one-room office in the small town of Black Earth, Wisconsin, about forty minutes’ drive from central Madison. Most people had no idea what we did. We got a lot of calls asking if we groomed poodles. The majority of our clients were referred by veterinarians, happy to send their clients to professionals trained in behavior modification. We soon learned that being an applied animal behaviorist fluctuates on a daily basis between risky and rote, heartwarming and heartbreaking.

  My first client was Petunia, a cocker spaniel mix whose owner had just moved to Madison on a Friday and had left Petunia crated up in the new apartment when she went to work the following Monday. She returned to find Petunia’s face covered with blood from the wounds she’d received while trying to chew out of her wire crate, and a furious landlord who said the dog had barked continuously all day long. “You’ve got two days to get the problem solved, or you’re out of here,” he said.

  Petunia had a classic case of separation anxiety, and because her owner had no friends in the area and couldn’t take any time off her new job, I spent the next two weeks teaching Petunia that she’d be fine alone in the new apartment while her owner was at work. After settling in with Petunia, I’d get up from the couch, pick up a set of keys, and toss her some treats. Sit back down. Then I’d repeat the sequence—get up, pick up keys, toss treats, sit back down—twenty times. All to teach Petunia that good things happen when someone picks up the keys. Next I’d pick up the keys and take five steps toward the door. Treats to Petunia. Then pick up the keys, walk all the way to the door, put my hand on the doorknob. Petunia would get chicken. Eventually, I’d leave the apartment for thirty seconds, then one minute, then ten, while Petunia sucked food out of a hollow toy. These steps conditioned Petunia to feel good instead of panicked when her owner left the apartment. They also taught me a lot about the patience and stamina required to turn around separation anxiety.

  It took two weeks and about seventy hours of my time, but Petunia learned to be comfortable while her owner was at work. I think I charged the client a total of $150, and I didn’t bill for either driving expenses or travel time. But the vet who made the referral was impressed, and that case led to another case, which led to three more. Before long, Nancy and I had a full-time caseload. After a few years, Nancy left to take a position at the university that was more likely to pay for her daughter’s love of horses, but I kept with it. I had caught the bug and loved acting as a translator between members of two different species.

  • • • • •

  As I worked, I channeled my idol, Jane Goodall, and saw myself as a field ethologist working in living rooms instead of the forests of Africa. I watched dogs as if recording the behavior of a wild species, carefully observing every change in eye expression or twitch of the lips. Once you are an experienced observer, you know that dogs are always trying to talk to you; you just need to pay attention.

  I quickly learned what every good trainer and behaviorist knows: Dogs have a silent voice that is easy to hear, but most people don’t know how to listen. Dog owners often need a translator, no matter how much they love their dogs. Teaching them how to communicate with their dogs was my primary responsibility. Though understanding what a dog is trying to tell you is not rocket science, it seems not to be intuitive, either. Mostly, you listen with your eyes.

  When I taught dog training classes, I’d have an owner practice a difficult recall, perhaps calling the dog away from food held in an assistant’s hand. The class would watch the owner praise her dog when it responded correctly, and I’d ask the rest of the class to describe how the dog responded to hearing “Good boy, Bailey!” and getting pats on the head. Consistently, observers would say that the owner’s reinforcement had been successful. “She was so cheerful!” they’d say. “Great job.” However, when I would ask how the dog had responded, the observers would realize that they hadn’t been watching the dog at all; they’d been watching the owner.

  We’d repeat the exercise, and this time they’d notice that Bailey would turn away while being petted on the head and try to avoid his owner’s hand. Did Bailey like the petting and the praise? “No!” the class would answer, like a surprised Greek chorus. I suggested that the “slap, slap” variety of head pats are disliked by most dogs and made Bailey less likely to come when called, not more so. Next we’d watch the dog’s response when he got a piece of dried chicken for running to his owner on cue, and this time Bailey would dance a happy dance while looking directly into his owner’s eyes: “Yes! I like this game. Can we do it again?”

  The same phenomenon—a dog clearly communicating something unnoticed by his owne
r—happened in my office on a daily basis. Max would creep into my office while the owners said, “Oh, he’s fine. Go ahead and pet him!” Meanwhile, Max would stand silent and still, eyes round in fear, begging me to please, please, please, not come over and lay my foreign hands on his body. If he had been a person, he would have been whimpering. Or crying.

  I loved playing Dr. Dolittle and acting as a bridge between individuals of two species who might adore each other but often miscommunicate. However, it wasn’t always easy.

  • • • • •

  I hadn’t seen many clients when a dog named Tanker came into my office. Tanker was a big, brilliant border collie who bit people. By the time I saw him, he had quite a record under his collar. When he was eight months old, he bit the mailman. He bit the vet with the commitment and consistency of a sports fanatic. And lately, he’d bitten his owner, George, who sat in my office with tears in his eyes, explaining to me how much he loved Tanker and how he hoped I could help him.

  George sat with his wife, Cynthia, shuffling his feet as he talked, the scuff of his leather shoes on the carpet repeating like a quiet drum underneath his words. I was listening, but I kept my eyes on Tanker—it seemed wise, under the circumstances. The dog, absolutely huge for a border collie, lay at George’s feet, sizing me up with steely eyes. George’s eyes were soft as he told me how much he loved his dog, even though Tanker growled when he tried to brush him and had bitten him the night before when George reached out to stroke his head.

  Tanker loved to cuddle up in bed beside George and Cynthia. He tended to sleep on George’s side—no doubt because there was a lot more room. Cynthia was as large as George was small. She was at least five-eleven and broad of beam. George was rail-thin and couldn’t have been more than five-six. Listening to them talk that summer afternoon, I couldn’t keep the “Jack Sprat” nursery rhyme out of my head.

  Cynthia’s laugh was as big as her body, and she used it often when interrupting George to tell her version of the story. “Smartest dog I’ve ever had,” she said. “Tanker’s got George wrapped around his little finger. I can’t convince George that he has to take charge, you know, be the alpha. That’s why we came to you. I thought he’d listen to you better than to me. We both love Tanker, but I know this is getting serious, and I can’t stand to see him push George around.” She turned her head from me to her husband and said, “George? Show her what he does when you reach to brush him.”

  George dug the dog brush out of the voluminous bag Cynthia had carted in, eased off his chair, and sat down next to Tanker. He reached toward Tanker with the brush.

  There was no mistaking the low growl that emanated from the dog’s throat. Tanker’s body stiffened and his mouth closed. He turned his head to stare at George’s hand. The white patch of fur around Tanker’s muzzle accentuated the tiny crinkles in his lips as he started to snarl.

  “Show her, George. Show her how he’ll snap at you.”

  George paused and examined the hairbrush. It had a worn backing and plastic bristles. The office was silent again for a moment. All I could hear was the wall clock ticking down the seconds, and the sound of Tanker’s quiet breathing. I quietly suggested that perhaps I could be the one doing the reaching, but George responded by reaching forward and touching the brush to Tanker’s back. Tanker’s head swung around so fast it barely seemed to move. First it was facing left and then, seemingly instantaneously, it was facing right. His teeth clamped on the brush with a clacking sound as George pulled back and yelled, “NO!”

  “See what I mean?” Cynthia said. “He’s getting really dangerous.”

  “Getting dangerous” was a pallid description of a dog who had bitten multiple times. I played with my pen.

  “Tanker is such a good dog in so many ways,” George said. “He’s so smart, he even makes up his own games! He’s started running up the stairs and dropping a ball so he can chase it and catch it when it gets to the bottom. Then he picks it up and runs back up to the top and starts again. Can you imagine?”

  When people tell me their dog is smart, I usually say, “I’m so sorry.” I’d learned early on that smart dogs turn into problem dogs as often as not. It doesn’t work out so well when the dog is a better trainer than the owner, and in spite of our species’ ability to invent chocolate and duct tape, that’s not uncommon. Put a dog and a human in a room for two hours, and I’ll guarantee you the dog will have done most of the training.

  “Most of the time, Tanker is so loving. We’d hoped for him to be a therapy dog—you know, the kind you take to nursing homes to cheer up the patients. He’s such a wonderful dog, at least most of the time, and he just loves people. We thought he’d be comforting to so many people if only he didn’t bite. Do you think you can help him?” George asked.

  Help him? At that point I was thinking more about helping myself. It was time for me do a hands-on evaluation. Working directly with a dog is the behavioral equivalent of a physician doing an exam in a medical clinic. You just don’t know what’s going on until you can interact with the dog yourself. But Tanker was not a dog I wanted to deal with that afternoon. It was early in my career, and I hadn’t been working with aggressive dogs for very long. In addition, I was exhausted. I’d already seen three clients before Tanker came in, and recurring nightmares had kept me up much of the night. I had begun to dream repeatedly about being mauled by a pack of dogs after an eighty-pound mixed-breed dog had wrapped his teeth around my hand (my fault). I’d wake up screaming, images of huge, jagged teeth ripping into me as I lay helpless on my back.

  After a few months of this, I decided my brain and body were trying to reconcile the reality of working with aggressive dogs. I began to make friends with teeth: “Oh, Charlie,” I’d say, “what big teeth you have! They are SO shiny and white!” The dreams went away, and after a while I became comfortable working with animals who had carpet knives in their mouths and were willing to use them. It didn’t occur to me at the time how important it was to find a way to face fear in an environment where I had knowledge and control on my side.

  Tanker was giving me an opportunity to test that out. He was lying at Cynthia’s feet, staring straight into my eyes with the kind of look Dirty Harry threw the bad guys before the fight started. I knew I couldn’t skip working directly with him. It’s one thing to talk to clients about how their dogs behave, but it’s another thing to see it for yourself. “Well,” I said as I got up from my chair, “I can’t give you any guarantees about what we can accomplish, but I can say that most dogs can be helped. It’s just impossible to know how much better they can get until you start them on a treatment plan.” I looked at Cynthia and said, “Before I can answer George’s question, I need to work with Tanker a bit. Is that all right?”

  “He’s all yours, hon,” said Cynthia. “Do be careful, though—he’s awfully fast.”

  I looked at Tanker, who continued to look straight into my eyes. I took a breath.

  Grabbing a handful of treats, I stood up and went halfway across the room. “Hey, Tanker,” I crooned, cocking my head sideways and waving a treat in my hand. Tanker cocked his head and bumped the end of his tail twice on the ground. Thump, thump.

  I smooched and patted my leg. Tanker got to his feet and walked toward me, wagging his tail slowly. There was nothing friendly about this wag. Tail wags are like smiles—usually, they indicate friendliness, but not always. You know those movies in which the hit man smiles right before he pulls the trigger? Or the glassy smile of someone who disses you in front of your date at a cocktail party? Tanker’s tail wag was somewhere in between the look of a cold-blooded killer and a rude sneer from a rival.

  “Tanker, sit,” I said, sweeping my right hand up as a visual signal. Tanker plopped his butt down on the carpet enthusiastically. Apparently, that was a game he was happy to play. Cynthia and George laughed. “Isn’t he cute?” she said.

  “Good boy, cutie,” I said, and tossed him a treat. He snatched it out of the air like a sea lion in a circus and
wheeled back toward me. He’d gotten up to grab the treat, so I asked for a sit again. Wham, he slammed his hindquarters down, raised a right paw up like a salute, and cocked his head. I got the distinct impression he was enjoying himself. Cynthia and George practically liquefied with love.

  “Good boy, Tanker.” I moved forward one step. “Lie down,” I told him quietly, pointing toward the ground.

  Tanker’s mouth closed and, ever so slightly, his body stiffened. Damn. I moved to his side, showed him the treat in my right hand, and eased it down toward the carpet as I softly said, “Lie down.”

  Tanker turned his head and glared into my eyes with a look that almost stopped my heart. Until then, I had not felt the meaning of the phrase “my blood ran cold.” It’s not just that you stop breathing or feel a rush of adrenaline that makes your stomach clench and your heart race. It’s all that, yes, but your insides cool off in a way that has nothing to do with the weather. Tanker’s eyes went still and steely, as if to remind me that he was armed, cocked, and loaded, with teeth designed to rip open leather. This look needed no analysis—my body knew exactly what it meant and started broadcasting trouble like the “engine overheating” light that blinks on your dashboard.

  I took another approach. I cooed. I showed Tanker the treat again, said, “Awww, too bad,” and popped it into my mouth. It was dried fish from Alaska. It tasted absolutely horrible.

  “Ummm, so good!” I said, smiling smugly as I chewed the hateful stuff. George was watching this performance with rounded eyes. Cynthia guffawed and then slapped George on the thigh.

  “That’ll fry his eggs!” Cynthia chortled. George smiled but looked confused.

  So did Tanker. He continued to stare at me, but his gaze had softened. He was giving me his full attention, waiting for what would come next. That seemed like a good start, so I was encouraged to continue.