The farrier came this week. Every year or so, he suggests I quit my day job and hold horses for him. He knows that in some people’s eyes, it would be a demotion. Every year, I consider it. It isn’t that my horses are perfect. It’s just that I never make things worse. The art of holding horses is to not hold them. If that sounds like another one of those Zen limericks that make you tilt your head like a beagle, you’re right.
But if you had the farrier’s job, would you want to put your head under a horse that someone had just chased down and dragged into the barn? If you had the horse’s job, would you like someone to hold your head so still that you felt claustrophobic inside your own skull? Just because something bad might happen. Pre-corrections are the worst, any horse will tell you. Just crazy-making, farriers agree. Anxiety is poison.
A book about calming signals in dogs heavily influenced me. Recognizing similar anxiety signals in horses changed how I trained, and now I’m using my horse methods with a dog. A circle because it’s all the same. Anxiety is poison.
Jolene and Mister watch us from the yard. They don’t run or tug or play bitey-face. This is serious. Jolene can only herd me with her eyes from this distance. It’s concerning.
Mister has a no-nonsense, low-energy herding method that he’s been teaching Jolene. It’s worked flawlessly for years; he hasn’t lost me once. He lies across my torso, so it’s impossible to sit up. He jams his sternum into the gap between my ribs and my navel, and I have to tense my gut to prevent internal bleeding. Then Jolene lies over my legs. Between the two of them, I’m pinned. I could make a bad joke; I’ve fallen and I can’t get up. But that stopped being funny when I was sixty.
Jolene’s non-training has gained momentum. I gave up on recall and moved to fetch because I was just nagging her name to death. Then at least she was running toward me half of the time and playing keep-away the other half. My answer to keep-away was to let her. That ruined the game. She needed to teach me what to do, and that’s when it got fun. I changed it up, gave a couple of fake tosses, and finally a high, slow one. Which she saw as a cheap shot with so little running, and she brought it back at full speed and launched from about three feet away. Jolene effortlessly glided over my knees, almost in slow motion, past my lap and slammed into my chest, the ball pushed into my ear. Full-contact fetch. But I take her point.
But then this. In a chaotic moment in class, Jolene wandered off. I dropped the leash so she wouldn’t trip a woman. Jolene’s a distance away now, and there’s lots to look at. With no expectation, I say her name and give her a chance. Not that I care, because caring is anxiety. And as if it’s the most ordinary thing, the keep-away queen trots to me. It isn’t a one-off. Jolene has a recall now. And a wait cue. And she’s walking on a loose lead and even heeling at liberty. No dull repetition with corrections for mistakes. She’s playing a game where she has a choice, which is more fun. In time, her puppy brain clicked. It’s like I got all the presents on her first birthday.
I can’t say that crate training is going as well. They don’t both fit now, and Mister has claimed it. He stays there when Jolene is on patrol. The truth is, he’s gotten gray around his muzzle this year. Mister is seven years old, I can’t stand thinking that’s probably midlife, so I call it premature graying. But we both notice. Dogs, like humans and horses, age in fits and spurts. Mister had a spurt.
Mister’s right front leg gives him some trouble. I know the feeling. The first time, the vet called it a soft tissue injury and told me to keep him quiet. It still happens, especially after playing rugby with Jolene. He must play, but then gallantly leaves the field. Limping is awkward for a short, long dog. He goes into the crate to sleep, perchance to dream. Mister wants you to know that he is more of a part-time dog. He needs his personal time.
Jolene thinks time apart is a crazy notion. She is a full-time dog on full-time reconnaissance. The job got real after meeting the sheep. Now she herds birds that fly over and anything that moves on TV. When we are stopped at a traffic light, she dares drivers next to us to look at her. If they do, she folds her tiny ears and says, I’m not flirting. You are.
But this is the thing. They couldn’t be more different. Dogs live shorter lives than us, and rather than whine about it later, I’m all in. No regrets, dogs get to be just who they are. Even if one dog’s bliss is another dog’s dread. Sometimes I worry that with all the puppy drama, I don’t do enough with Mister.
There’s a lone Canada goose on the pond the last few days. You usually see them in a beautiful V-shaped skein up high or in pairs. Hardly ever a singleton, but the pair she arrived with left her. Maybe she lost a mate, or she’s waiting for an injury to heal. The goose paces deliberately back-and-forth in the pond, then rests onshore. No panic. She is regal, ignoring the magpie that circles and mocks her. Watching birds is a thoughtful endeavor after all the long work hours and dog play. Maybe we are both taking time for ourselves. Restoring our spirits. You’re welcome here, little friend.
And if birding isn’t enough, Mister has a health tip. He reminds you that March 9th was National Napping Day, but it’s never too late to celebrate. He recommends napping around. We doze off out in the Dog Barn and Literary Lounge, but this week was warm. I took a nap in a lawn chair in the backyard with the dogs. It was excellent. I’ve always been a napper.
Mister, who does research in his sleep, says there are studies in countries that have a siesta in the middle of the day that find people have better health. Naps can improve alertness, creativity, and mood. They say naps can also reduce stress on the body, lowering the risk of stroke and heart attack. Jolene credits napping with her ability to learn and remember. Mister says that’s why it has always been his version of herding.
What if napping counts as dog time? We race from one thing to another; we hustle enrichment and special events. Jolene wants to believe it’s all just fun and games, but Mister, who is wise as a donkey, insists that sleeping close is a natural and necessary remedy. Napping is when we ask nothing of each other and just breathe.
Which is how to hold a horse for the farrier, too. It’s afternoon when we finally finish up. He checked everybody, but only trimmed where needed. We’re settling up by his truck, and Jolene is still sitting at attention, ears up, watching. Mister crawled off to the shade two hours ago. She has been howling. Jolene does that more than barking lately. She lifts her tiny snout to the sky, and a low, quiet exhale seeps into the air. She’s persistent, but with my hearing loss, it registers like a faraway siren. Almost inaudible, and more of a song than a command. An irresistible coaxing. I might have heard it the day she was born.
Moving toward the yard, Jolene goes to the gate to meet me. What if this is why Jolene’s recall took so long? Maybe she had to trust I’d always come first. Finally, I get it. I’ve been thinking I was a fancy horse trainer with a knack for dogs. While all along she has been working on my recall.
To be continued…
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