My Dad and his Dogs (I)

      Observers noticed my dad's heart was in the grave. At that age, he had nothing to live for or to look forward to anymore.I was warned my dad might not live long.

The story of my elderly father first appeared in the Animal Scene magazine written by my college buddy Mona Sabalones Gonzales (copy paste her blog -- http://monasabalonesgonzalez.blogspot.com/2011/03/how-dog-gave-new-life-to-its-elderly.html on your address bar). It's the story of how a dog prolonged the life of a 79-year-old widower -- who thought he had nothing to look forward to anymore -- by an extra 15 years.

During my mom’s one-year hospitalization, friends and relatives warned me that my dad could just as soon follow after her. They had been together for 53 years. How can a man find a new life after all that? All my siblings were abroad and I was living on my own apart from them. So he was, indeed, doomed to live alone after my mom dies. On Christmas eve my mom died. I can imagine what must've gone in his head that day after the funeral. In two months he will be 80. Too late to start anything new.
              That's why old people look back. They see nothing up ahead.
              I have to give thanks to my cousin Marimi whose parents were also aging at the same time. She was the one who led me to the right direction. “Find something your dad loved to do when he was young,” she said, passing on the same advice her father’s geriatric doctor had told her. “That indicates his natural talent, a passion which he can do easily.”

My dad headed the legal dept of the military. Here he is shown reviewing arms surrendered by rebels. This was taken probably in the late 1950s or early 1960s, at the height of his career.

I looked at my dad and took stock of his “passions.” He was a military man, through and through. He loved military law. It was his life. He loved golf too. He also loved jazz music. He enjoyed tinkering around the house. He had a good hand with plants. He was also good with animals.

I decided a new dog would be easier for me to give.

But I didn’t address that until several months later. Soon after my mom died I packed my stuff and went home to keep him company. There, I saw the silence that surrounded his life. He read all day. TV in the evenings. Monday mornings we’d visit the cemetery. Once a week he’d trek to the market to replenish food supplies. At home, he’d read again.

When I found a new job in a magazine office I’d leave him alone until I come home in the evening. Observers noticed his heart was in the grave. At that age, it seemed my dad had nothing to live for or to look forward to anymore. I was warned he might not live long.

One day, I was sent to interview a dog owner who wanted his prized Boxer dog featured. It had just won the All-Breed Championship title the third time in a row at a nationwide dog show.  

It turned out the dog owner named Joey, kept a lot of dogs too. I saw a long kennel of snub-nosed canines leap and bark excitedly when they saw me. They were the most attractive animals in the world. That smart military stance, that alert and intelligent look in their eyes, and that dignified hold of their heads – they were Boxers! Joey had a lot of them. He was a breeder.

During the interview I had many questions outside of the article I planned to put together. I told Joey about my dad. I told him stories of how my dad was good with dogs but I was not familiar with Boxers. Would that be a good breed for an elderly?

After the interview Joey walked me out but led me first to a cage where a tall 6-month old Boxer rose when it saw us. Joey took it out and presented it to me. “Give it to your father,” he said.

That Ugly Dog

The dog had a small head. But it was a purebred. “It won’t qualify for show,” Joey warned me, explaining that he breeds only show dogs. “Those that don’t qualify either I sell cheap or give away to friends.”

I looked down at that brindle pup with its black mask and miserable-looking wrinkled expression. It looked the ugliest dog in the world. It didn’t look as smart as those other Boxers in the kennel (especially the tan and white ones). My heart didn’t go out to it. But maybe my dad’s heart would. Maybe this dog was meant for him.

(next post below)

My Dad and his Dogs (II)

       Those were years of a new life for my dad: raising, training, and caring for the seven dogs. They had so taken over his life.

             

           The love affair started slowly. Every morning as I’d leave for work I’d see my elderly dad sit at his favorite chair in the living room, his book for the day, and an ugly brown dog on the floor by his side. When I come home in the evening, he’d open the door for me and I’d see that same ugly brown dog with him.

But my dad was becoming enthusiastic. “The dog is beside me all day long,” he remarked. “When I go to the kitchen she follows me. When I go back to the living room she follows me too.”  He reminisced a similar dog that stayed by his side when he was a little boy. Life was getting interesting.

It took many days before my dad named the dog. Finally he decided on “Alfa.”

One day I saw a new book by his seat. It was a book about Boxers. He had gone out that day to buy the book that would soon be his new Bible. He studied it all day and would tell me the new things he was learning.  

When my dad had gone through the book, he announced to me what he wanted to do next: he wanted to breed Alfa.

I went back to Joey to tell him that Alfa was in good hands, my dad was interested in life again, and that he wanted to have the dog bred. We arranged for the stud date and on that day I brought Alfa back to Joey where she stayed a few days.

The Extended Years

Alfa gave birth to six tiny puppies. I brought them home from the vet in a laundry basin and my dad greeted me upon my arrival to see them. A few days later, I returned to the clinic with all six to have their tails docked. When I came home after the pups’ minor surgery, my dad gave a remark that indicated the new obsession he was developing: “So that is what was done.  I couldn’t sleep all week thinking how the surgery was going to be like!”

All six pups grew robust and happy. In the beginning we relegated them to the den and my dad bought a pup crib upon the vet’s advice for them to stay until their booster shots were complete. Soon, all six pups were crowded in the crib. Every morning my dad would enter to feed his wards and the growing youngsters, waiting for breakfast, would raise an uproar soon as the door opened.The den was next to my room so the racket was my alarm clock!

But I was facing new challenges now. If my mom was still around, she would've never let dogs inside the house. But when she left, life at home evolved to a new personality. There were 7 new rambunctious members sharing the space. Everyday the dogs were full of antics that delighted my dad no end. The downside? The house was often dirtier! The problems of housecleaning and housebreaking became my territory. We consulted the book on Boxers often. In the end, I experimented on leaving the front door open so the pups could run in and out as they wished. I taught them to do their Nature's Call downstairs.

The dogs scramble for their master's attention. At right is Alfa.

We quickly became famous in the neighborhood. The canine youngsters were a beautiful sight. Joey had told me not to look down at Alfa critically because though she was ugly, she can produce a superb line of Boxers. She did. For blocks around our house was a fascination. People would purposely pass by our house just to get a glimpse of those seven snub-nosed Boxers lounging at our front gate watching the world go by. A charming sight.

Having the Boxers turned out to be the ideal breed for us. By then, we had a new maid with a six-year-old daughter. As I’d leave for work every morning, I knew my father would’ve been vulnerable. I was leaving behind one female househelp, one child, and an elderly. But vulnerable they were not. The seven Boxers, to the uninformed, looked fierce!

Those were years of a new life for my dad: raising, training, and caring for the seven dogs. They had so taken over his life that relatives and friends found amusing his rushing home in the afternoons to “feed the dogs." But nobody appreciated the big picture then. The dogs were my dad's second lease on life in his old age. They were what kept him alive.

(next post below)

My Dad and his Dogs (III)

      The departure of his lovable pets must’ve broken my dad’s heart. But he kept it to himself.

But as the puppies grew up, it looked like my dad had every intention of keeping all six. They were his pride and joy and the dogs scrambled over each other whenever they saw him. Housekeeping remained difficult and when they were teething we had to bear a lot of furniture damage. I shook my head at all these and remembered my mom. She would not be able to bear the way the dogs were turning her beautiful home into a doghouse. 

My dad and King Kong

Finally, things came to a head. My dad had this habit of letting his dogs loose out in the street for their morning exercise and I’d see and hear neighbors scramble to their homes and shut their gates (and peer over the fence at the fascinating sight). At first I thought it was amusing. But when I saw the six siblings charge back to my dad from the end of the street shoulder-to-shoulder like a pack of wild horses, to the uninformed, to face that head-on was frightening! The youngsters were growing bigger and looking more scary because they were Boxers. Though the breed is known as non-aggressive and gentle, many people did not know that. Neighbors’ complaints repeatedly reached us. One day, after much discussion with me, my dad let me put out an ad and slowly, the dogs left us.

The departure of his lovable pets must’ve broken my dad’s heart. But he kept it to himself. The last dog that left us was “Negro,” a big and beautiful Boxer that almost looked like a Mastiff. I remember before Negro left, my dad cupped the dog's large head in his hands, looked at his wrinkled face  and said, "Be a good dog," as his farewell blessing and admonition. But in his new home, the neighbors feared this gentle dog because of its looks so one night some idiot tossed a piece of bread laced with poison over the fence...

There was one dog which my dad kept behind, the only tan-and-white pup in the litter, a lookalike of his stud father who was one of Joey's champions. His name was King Kong. But with the other pups gone, the house was lonely and quiet again. Some days my dad would ask me to find those new owners and just inquire if he could visit his former dogs. I could see that they were a part of his heart and he missed them. But I never got around to doing this for him.
             Finally my dad announced he wanted to raise a new brood so off Alfa went to Joey. But by that time Joey was slowly phasing off his kennel hobby and didn't have an available stud so he referred us to one of his Boxer friends. We took Alfa to another Boxer owner but we had waited too long. Her critical heat period had already elapsed. Since female dogs go in heat every six months, we waited another half a year. 

Alfa's second litter didn’t do so well; they were born during the summer and one very warm night my dad made the mistake of positioning an electric fan steady on them while they were in the whelping box. All the pups died except for one: another tan-and-white youngster we named Butchie Boy.

Butchie Boy grew to be a beautiful Boxer. But by then my dad was older. The maid was taking care of it more often. When Butch was three years of age, Alfa was in her sunset years. I wanted to get the playful Butch a new playmate and at the same time inject a new breed into our household. I brought in a Dalmatian puppy.

Alfa was twelve years old when she developed a growth in her uterus. Her vet diagnosed it as a tumor and warned it may spread. As it grew larger, my dad suggested we put her to sleep. Alfa was very old and very sick. As the months passed the maid reported pus was coming out the dog’s ears. It was proof that the tumor had already spread. My dad made his request. The dog was beginning to get smelly too.

A few weeks before we were to have visitors flying in from abroad, I made the decision to finally put the dog to sleep. The vet came. After it was all over, I told my dad in his room. I had Alfa buried at the side of our house. The dog that had opened an amazing new door in my dad’s life had fulfilled her purpose successfully. Now it was her turn to go.

The Last Years

A Dachshund followed – a lively self-assured little pup that initiated chase games with Butch and the Dalmatian named Spotty. My dad watched at the antics, fascinated with the spunky newcomer. But the Dachshund was not ours; it was to go to my cousin Marie a month later. When Marie came to pick it up, she read my dad's expression. A few weeks later she sent a new Dachshund to replace the first. We named the newcomer Packy.

My dad at his 90th birthday party. With him are Butchie Boy (left) and Alfa (right).

When Packy joined us my dad was 93 years old. My mom’s death which had left him empty and abandoned was 14 years ago. People had thought he was going to follow her but he didn’t. A new adventure had opened in his life and he had enjoyed it thoroughly. It was full of new experiences, challenges, and knowledge. He had discovered a new life after widowhood in his late sunset years. But by the time Packy came around, he had become an observer. I know he would've wanted to live on but he was burdened by his physical disabilities denying him further enjoyment of life. He was too old to move around, osteoarthritis had confined him to his chair. He couldn't go out and buy the dogs their food anymore, or wash the bowls and prepare their meals. Macular degeneration wouldn't let him enjoy a book and learn more about them; he couldn’t even see them well enough to enjoy their antics which were his daily delight.
                Life was closing in on him.

Packy was not as spunky as the first Dachshund. But he spent his puppyhood napping at my dad’s feet and spending his days in his room. In the mornings whenever my dad would be in the front yard neighbors would remember him as sitting in his chair to catch the early morning sun with a Dachshund puppy sunbathing along with him on his lap. That was Packy's role for him in his very advanced age.

My dad died at the age of 94 in his sleep a few months later.

Maybe it’s good my dad left before Packy became an adult. This is one dog that gives us a very challenging life at home. He keeps trying to train us. Packy would've had his little furry paw around my dad (which would clash with me as I learned more about dog training).

So is there more to life when it seems empty and feels like there's nothing further up ahead? Definitely. Sometimes it will come up to you and bark.

.

           

How to Win Over Fireworks

      Over at my neighborhood the explosion of fireworks on New Year’s Eve can get pretty lunatic. This is a hard time for dogs. 

Spot hides under a chair

      The fireworks over at my area are fierce. At the countdown of New Year’s Eve, the explosions increase in crescendo and frequency and neighbors would bravely step out amidst the cloud of smoke to wave at other neighbors and greet each other. I remember in years past my sister and I would peep timidly out our gate our ears blocked with cotton to muffle the sound but as the paper shrapnel and grains of soil caused by an exploding firecracker blasts at us we’d squeak and close the gate to shield ourselves from it.

      I used to push my bed away from the wall on that night because my dog Spot tries to crawl under it and the only way to get under the bed is to enter it from under the headboard. I don’t know what my other dogs do but they’re all not in sight while we’re up and about on that boisterous night.

      But I’ve seen the agony dogs go through. When my bed is flushed to the wall and Spot can't crawl under it, I see my dog desperately trying to dig through the floor just so he could get under anything.

The Search for the Right Method

      This need to finally address my dog's fear of explosions started a few months before the New Year. One day, between our agility training sessions at the park, I visited Bobbit, president of the Mondio Ring club. Their area is adjacent ours.  I had Spot in tow. It so happened they were having a session where they fire a cap pistol in the air as part of a protection dog’s training. Soon as the occasional pistol shot cracked in the air, Spot dove under the table trembling in fear.
      Bobbit noticed it at once. He remarked, ”Gun shy? Your dog is gun shy?”
      I replied in the affirmative. “How do you remove that fear?” I asked him.“That’s a problem at our place especially on New Year’s Eve.”
      Bobbit said, “Distract the dog. Give him a training lesson when there are fireworks.”

      Easier said than done, of course. But it wouldn’t work with Spot. As the year approached its end and occasional fireworks would explode during the day, I'd call the dog and try to review him his tricks but the dog would be in no mood to listen to me.

      So I wasn’t getting it right.

      Next, a friend of mine at the agility club named Mariel brought up the idea of a binding vest (called a "thunder shirt") which a dog wears as a way to deal with fireworks.  It follows the same principle used by farm owners to console cows distressed at sudden loud sounds such as thunder, according to her. The cows are each backed into a very tight pen, so tight the cow cannot turn around at all. Some websites sell these tight elastic vests. A friend of ours who bought one for her firecracker-shy Retriever, according to Mariel, said that it worked on her dog.

      I tried to see what I could do (short of buy the darn vest online). Spot had an old Superman t-shirt which he wore when he was younger. I was sure it would be several sizes smaller on him by now.

      The t-shirt was a very tight fit. But it wasn’t working. As the occasional firecracker blasted away in the streets (maybe the neighborhood kids on a dry run?) the dog was still visibly upset.
      Since I’ve long known the dog does not react when I hold his ears shut against his head, I thought of finding a way to keep those ears closed.  The elastic bandage came to my mind.

      The dog made quite an amusing sight. Wearing a tight Superman t-shirt, his head bandaged by several layers to keep his ears covered, I led the dog into our sitting room where the firecrackers out in the street could be heard.

      Again, it didn’t work. Aside from the dog’s wide-eyed look of fear at the strange binding around his head, soon as a series of explosions wracked the stillness in the air, Spot, visibly distressed,  scrambled on the wicker seat where I was on and struggled to insert himself between my back and the wicker chair.  Ah, I thought, he wants that snugness. So I leaned back hard on the dog while he squeezed behind me, his bandaged head sticking out above my shoulders.

      But was the dog relaxed? He wasn’t. I could feel his heart palpitating, almost as if his whole body was vibrating with it, against my back. This wasn’t working.

      I undid the bandages and peeled off his t-shirt when the peace returned in our street.

      What now? Short of relaxant pills (the dogs each get an anti-stress pill on that night), elastic vests, and “distracting lessons” during firecracker explosions?

Your Silent Canine Observer

      Last year, I heard of a game played by owners with their dogs at a summer camp at Mt Makiling. Participants were asked to form two lines facing inwards and to leave a small pathway for a dog and owner to pass through. Taking turns, each owner, blindfolded, would walk down that pathway while leading his dog.

      In that game, it was observed that some dogs followed obediently beside their blindfolded owners while there were others who didn’t.

      Why did the other dogs not follow their masters in that situation? Their behavior was explained by the moderator. He explained that dogs reflect the attitude (and personality) of their owners. If the owner was fearful of walking blindly down that straight pathway, the dog would learn to be just as fearful and as a consequence, refuse to follow. But if the owner, regardless of the situation, showed a confident attitude, the dog, looking at his master as his leader, would follow.

      It's a further demonstration of how the canine, being a pack animal, is wired to look for a leader in his life. So where the hell did my dog get that fearful reaction of firecracker explosions?

      I didn’t have to look far. He got it from us. As a young dog, when he saw us squeak and cringe when we’d peep out the gate every New Year’s Eve, Spot concluded the explosions were to be feared.

      Now I have to show this dog that firecrackers (and pistol shots) aren’t scary.

How to Show That Fireworks are Exciting

      When Christmas finally came, the nearby mall put up its yearly 70 foot giant Christmas tree. At 7 o’clock every night, there would be a brief sky rocket display. The fireworks would light up the sky in brilliant lights and we would see it from our front garden.

      Again, I’d see the distressed reaction from Spot. He’d go to my room and I’d hear the desperate gouging and scratching on the floor as he’d try to dig a hole to hide in.  I remembered the game at that summer camp. Why not show to the dog that fireworks are exciting instead?

      The following night, I waited for the 7 o’clock fireworks. As the booming sounds started reverberating in the distance, I saw Spot beginning to collect his fears.  But he was in for a surprise this time. I went out into the garden and as usual, the dogs followed. At the first exploding sky rocket display, I clapped my hands in glee and began to shout, “Yehey! Wooh wooh! Wow! Look at that!”

      Bewildered, Spot looked at me and barked. I kept clapping at every sky explosion. Spot didn’t see that, of course, and faced me instead. But as Lourdes (I called her to join me) and I clapped our hands and shouted in excitement, Spot kept barking at our reaction. His fear response didn’t show one bit.

Training to Distract

      We kept this for several nights until I remembered Bobbit’s advice to distract the dog with a training session. This was how I was able to teach Spot to “Speak.”

      Soon as the nightly fireworks started to light up the sky and we’d teach the dogs to get excited at our clapping and shouting, I decided to throw in a training session to distract Spot. The dog was barking already. I have to get a hold of that behavior to make him bark upon command. One night, as the dog barked at our clapping, I turned to the dog and gave him the command,“Speak!” Bewildered, Spot looked at my hand signal and heard my command but, seeing us excited about the sky rockets, raised a bark. “Good boy!” I exclaimed, and gave the dog a biscuit.
       We'd practice this three times every night.

     

      Finally, New Year’s Eve 2011 finally arrived and the fireworks were intense. Two neighbors were showing off their stock and the explosions were so loud we decided not to peek out our gate that eve (worse, they were lighting it in front of our house because it faced the street light). 

      What was my dog doing?

      He was out with us in the living room (which opened into the garden) barking at the explosions. At least this time he wasn't hiding.  But we're not finished yet. This is still a work in progress. My dog behaviorist consultant, Fred Alimusa, said, "The dogs are barking to make it go away." There's still desensitization work to do. I'll get there one of these days. . . maybe before the next New Year. 

Trick Training Part I

      I learned a lot about a dog’s mind when I tried trick training.  I don’t know who has learned more – the dog or me!

      It’s been several  months since I’ve appeared in this blog. My computer went kaput. But it’s fixed now.

      During the months  I’ve been away, we haven’t been just sitting around at home doing nothing. I’m still training the dogs – and this time I’m getting better at it. Or wiser at it.

      Trick training has expanded my bonding with my boys at home. In agility, it’s only Spot that I bond with. So training the other 2 dogs some tricks helped me reach out to Packy and Toby.

      I’m not very good at repetitive and consistent efforts because when I get bored, I stop doing it. Trick training is just that – repetitive and consistent! So I thought of a way to get around this – by arranging a “mini training” session after my lunch and dinner.  With biscuit jar ready at the kitchen counter, when I stand up after meals I reach for the jar and call the dogs one by one for their lesson.

      The dogs do one trick three times only. That’s all they do. Even if it’s not perfectly done (especially if it’s a new trick), as long as they get close to the goal desired that’s good enough. They get a treat afterward. It’s to give them the idea what they’re doing is right. After the third practice, it’s over.
      But this session is after my lunch and dinner so they practice their trick 6 times a day. Not bad. Keeps the training fresh. We finish before they tire of it. I find them looking forward for the next session.   

Lessons in Patience

      Spot’s first tricks were to learn to shake hands upon command and to carry a basket.” Of course, the dog didn’t know what I wanted him to do when I’d say, “Shake hands.” So when I’d say “Shake hands,” I’d get his right paw up and shake it. “Good boy!” I’d exclaim, followed by a biscuit in his mouth.  Soon, Spot caught on. On the third day after lunch, when I called him and he sat before me, I said, “Shake hands,” his paw went up for a handshake! What a great feeling. I was getting through to the dog.

      “Hold the basket” took a long time. I almost gave up on it. He’d push out with his tongue anything I'd put in his mouth. Oh boy, that meant there were more commands BEFORE the "Hold" command.
       So I have to get manual about this. I’d command, “Open,” pry his mouth apart and put a rolled newspaper in. “Hold,” would be the next command as I’d clamp his snout shut (in the beginning the dog would struggle to push it out).  When I feel his mouth relax, it’s the “Good boy!” praise.  I ready the biscuit and let him spit the paper out so he can get his reward.

      If the praise comes in at the wrong time I might reinforce the wrong action. I’d console myself that it’s just 3 repeats after meals. But those 3 have to be done right.
      Finally, Spot started to hold the newspaper in. He was beginning to understand. We moved from rolled newspaper to rubber ball to empty plastic bottle then finally a small basket.

      The next step was to work on his holding the basket a few seconds longer each time. Spot knew how to “Stay” so I’d leave the dog in the Sit/Stay position and let some time pass to build his endurance with that foreign object in his mouth.

A camera conscious Spot practices the Long Hold.

      As the dog got adept at holding the basket longer, it was time for the next step: the “heel” command. But alas, the dog would drop the basket before he takes any step forward.  I must have lost my patience a few times because I thought the dog was uncoordinated. But the learning curve was on my side. Should Spot skulk away upset, I’d brace myself to call him back in a cheerful tone, to erase any bad memories.  

      A dog should have fun while training. If he muddles through a lesson it means the training is going too fast.  You have to backtrack. Maybe some steps are being skipped.
      I broke the heeling action into smaller pieces. How 'bout one step at a time?
      Next time, I told the dog to “Heel” while he was holding the basket, I helped him take one step forward only. Then I quickly got the basket. Praise and reward at once. Three repetitions only. Then I ended the session.     

      As the dog became more comfortable with his one step forward, next session it was two steps.  Three times only. Then we ended the training.

      After a few sessions the dog understood that I wanted him to follow me around. He followed me round the dining table but when we got to the counter where the biscuit jar was, he dropped the basket at my feet. I added the "Give" command to cap the action: I'd give the command and quickly get the basket before he drops it. Then a reward.

      One morning, I took the basket  to the park during our agility training to practice the dog in a new environment. After Spot took the basket from me he turned and walked through the ribbed tunnel as I followed him on the outside. He emerged with the basket still in his mouth. He accompanied me back to the table where the treats were, sat in front of me and upon my command, gave me the basket. This simple trick is composed of 6 commands (“Open,” “Hold,” “Stay,” “Heel,” “Sit,” and “Give”), each command worked on individually, then finally merged together to form one smooth action.

Trick Training 2

      Dog training methods are not canned. There is no one way to communicate your message to your dog. “Think creative,” Fred used to say.

      By comparison, Packy was a fast learner. I don’t know if it’s because he’s younger – or if it's his breed.  Dachshunds are always known to be smart, intelligent, and independent. The first trick I wanted Packy to learn was how to play dead. When we had the dog school at the park years ago, I used to see Jonathan teach Toby how to play dead by saying, “Bang!” and aim his forefinger at the dog as if it were a pistol. His son would push Toby down.

      But Toby didn’t seem to learn it. Maybe it was because there was no praise or reward at the end. The training structure was not complete.

      So I thought I’d apply it to Packy. But done in a complete way.  Now how do you get the “dead” message across to a dog? I thought of pushing the dog down.

      I called Packy to me and said, “Bang!” complete with the pistol action of my hand. Packy looked up at me bewildered. I pushed the dog down on the floor and turned him over.  “Good boy!” I exclaimed, and when Packy rolled over and got up I gave a treat. We did that three times that lunchtime.

      Again, we did it three times again after dinner.

      The next day after my lunch, I called Packy to me and said, “Bang!” complete with hand gesture. Packy dropped on the floor and turned on his back.

      I was surprised. He learned the command by the next day!

      The next succeeding days were spent “polishing” his form (which I'm still working on).

      My other problem with Packy was his frequent barking, being a small hunting dog. His yappy behavior  was beginning to rub on my otherwise quiet Dalmatians, making the latter more noisy than usual. Packy knew how to “Speak” but making him quiet was a challenge that racked my mind. How do you bring that message across to a dog?

All is quiet when the world's yappiest dog is asleep...

      I used to have occasional chats with Fred Alimusa, the country’s first dog behaviorist, over coffee (or his Scotch and chicharon) and in one of my talks with him, I got the impression dog training methods are not canned. There is no one way to communicate your message to your dog. “Think creative,” Fred used to say.  “Think of how you can get your message across for the dog to understand.”

      Freed from misconceptions, I thought of reviving Packy’s “Speak” complete with the accompanying hand gesture. Packy would deliver his sharp Dachshund bark or two with gusto. But suddenly he will hear the “Quiet!” command complete with another hand gesture. Packy would look at me in bewilderment but the sudden silence is the response I want. “Good boy!” A treat follows.

      We’d do it three times after my lunch then three times more after my dinner. 

      Packy got it immediately. The next day when I said, “Quiet!” with my index finger up at him after a round of raucous barking, the dog silenced.

      The “Quiet” command helped us a lot in our daily life with this dog. Whenever the doorbell rings, a vendor passes by, a cat is seen on the roof, or there are birds at the trellis, Packy would fill the air with his loud and sharp barking. We’d let the dog release its tensions for awhile but we can’t let him do it to his heart’s content. Soon it’s the “Quiet!” command and the dog knows what it means.

      I’m still thinking what other commands I can teach this very intelligent dog.   

The Lesson of Toby About Separation

      “Just walk away,” I told Roy. “No farewells. Don’t look back. Just walk out of here.”

      My friend Malu has a clever way of dealing with her dog, Happy, so he will not suffer from separation anxiety. In the mornings while she and her daughter are preparing to leave for work, Happy is being prepared too. He is brushed, given his meal, fitted his collar, and leashed. When Malu and her daughter walk out the house towards the car, Happy walks out with them too. Then the maid veers the dog  off in the opposite direction for his daily morning walk. While Happy is a distance away, Malu and her daughter drive off in the other direction. There are no farewells between the dog and his mistresses. The dog doesn’t experience any separation.

      Separation anxiety is often the underlying cause behind many dog behavioral problems at home. Many owners don’t realize it is simply because their beloved pet is upset at being separated from them. Trainers are called and are unsuccessful in eradicating the behavior. When the master comes home and sees the path of destruction caused by his dog he is greeted by the culprit ecstatic at the reunion.But the master, not as happy, renders punishment instead. This throws his pet into confusion. He is happy at his master's return but his master is mad at him. For what? In time the happy dog becomes fearful, not knowing what to expect. 

      The next time the dog is locked alone in the house again, the damage continues and pools of urine and animal poo litter the floors. The master returns and punishes the dog upon seeing the wreckage and the dog learns to fear the arrival of his master. But later, his master will call him for a cuddle and maybe for a walk in the park. The dog is now in confusion. Are good times back again?
      Not at all. The next day as the master tries other methods (locking the dog in the yard, chaining him, or confining him to a cage, etc.) the hapless dog's anxiety makes him display new problematic behavior such as making holes in the garden, barking or howling all day, destroying the flowerbed, etc.         
      The problem refuses to ease up as the master exacts one disciplinary action after another on a confused dog. Finally, the dog ends up being given away. Total separation.

A black Lab waits expectantly for his master to come back.

      I've heard owners suspect their dog was exacting vengeance on them because of an earlier scolding -- or that the dog was seeking attention because of neglect. That would apply if the dog was human. But he is canine -- a different specie.  

      Dogs, whom we often hear of as "pack animals" are not solitary creatures and cannot live alone. Separated from his master or family and left alone, a dog will whine, cry, and bark – natural reactions he used to do to bring his mother to him. But being an adult he can do more: he can dig, scratch the door or window, chew at the fence or whatever it is that holds him back, climb the bookcase or furniture, mutilate the plants, defecate and urinate in inappropriate places (such as the family’s new Persian carpet), or seek escape to try to rejoin his family.

      That was how my second Dalmatian named Toby, came into our lives.

      I first saw the dog as a 4-month old puppy when his master, Roy, came to visit our dog school at a local park. Toby had big feet which he flopped sideways awkwardly, a movement which dog trainers in our company called “East-West.” It seemed the dog was living in a comfortable home with shiny but slippery floors. Toby needed to walk on solid earth more often to strengthen his foot muscles and straighten out his walk.

      This gave Roy good reason to take his pet out to the park on weekends for long walks. But as Roy spent his Saturday mornings at the dog school and revealed bits of his life at his home, we could see that his beloved dog was causing friction in the family. Roy’s wife, fond of beautiful but fragile Thai home décor, was often infuriated by Toby’s rowdiness around the house. The dog was always smashing or crashing into something valuable.

      I told Roy their house was not pet-friendly. “Get rid of your breakables,” I advised him. “If you must insist on displaying them, put them up high. You have a Dalmatian – a high energy dog. If it doesn’t get the exercise it needs it’s a jumping time bomb!”

      But Toby’s emotional turmoil was never understood whenever Roy left him behind. One night, the family decided to go out to dinner and locked the dog alone inside the house. In their absence, Toby released his fear and frustration of being left behind and turned the house into his personal bathroom by urinating and defecating everywhere, broke valuable china and glass décor, even attempted to follow his owners by climbing out a window and crashing down the TV set in the process. When his family came home that night Toby got exiled – literally. 

This is Toby -- at the time of his exile in 2007

      Roy delivered 8-month old Toby to our dog school the next day, asking if I would like to adopt him. I consented, being a lover of the breed. But as Roy prepared to leave, we had to plan his departure carefully. I had seen Roy visit us every Saturday morning, the dog sticking close to him, unable to socialize with the other dogs there. Toby was very dependent on his master for his personal security. How would he feel if he found out his beloved master was giving him away?

      “Just walk away,” I told Roy. “No farewells. Don’t look back. Just walk out of here.”

      While we distracted Toby with play, his now former master walked out. Toby didn’t seem to notice it.

      I brought the dog home where he immediately enjoyed his new family immensely because he finally had playmates. His new life kept him busy. I never saw the dog pine away at a door or window looking for Roy.  

       Every weekend after that I’d bring Toby to the park where Roy would visit him. Roy would bring him a new red collar, a kilo of his favorite bananas, and other gifts. The two would walk around the park to bond. Then Roy would return Toby to the dog school. While we distracted Toby with a run around the agility course, Roy would leave quietly.        

      Before our dog school at the park closed the following year, Roy gave Toby one last visit. The two walked around the park then returned to the school where Roy tied Toby to a post and informed us he was leaving. But that was a busy Saturday morning and there were many students. Somehow, Toby was not immediately tended to and Roy, tired of waiting, turned and walked out the school grounds. He was already a distance away when Toby managed to loosen his leash and pursued his master down the lane, greeting Roy ecstatically upon being reunited with him, expecting to go home with his (former) master. Roy calmly picked up his dragging leash and walked him back to the school where one of the marshalls took him for an exercise. While Toby’s back was turned Roy walked away again.

      I watched the dog when he was returned back to the post where he had last seen Roy. I saw Toby turn his head in all directions as if to say, “Huh? Where did my master go? He was here a minute ago.”

Toby touches Roy lovingly. He didn't understand that Roy had given him away already.

      But that’s as far as it went. At closing time Toby climbed inside the car along with Spot to go live in his new home with us and his new packmates without looking back.

      It was Toby who made us aware of what happens when a dog suffers from separation anxiety. His first family threw him out because of it. Almost all dogs suffer from this agony and they cope with it in their own doggy way. Before Spot came into our lives we had a Boxer named Butchie Boy. I remember leaving him inside the house leashed while I stepped out for an errand. Everybody was out so Butchie Boy would be literally left by himself. I thought of keeping him tied so should he think of answering nature’s call it would be controlled in just one area. My mistake. When I arrived, I saw that Butch had somehow reached my computer and had chewed all its cables in half.

      We’ve had our own share of horrors in the past with growing dogs in our midst and we’ve developed our own ways of helping minimize this anxiety which they feel when separated from us.

      One of the most common ways we do should we ever leave the dogs alone is to leave a radio turned on to a relaxing music station. Dogs wait patiently for their family’s return and a quiet house seems to make all small sounds louder, adding to their anxiety. A voice in the street, a neighbor’s door banging, a creaking branch in the wind, etc all cause them to worry and bark nervously. Music covers all these disturbing sounds and keeps them calm.

      Another rule we observe is that we do not bid the dogs goodbye. They may see all the signals of a departure and that is enough. So we do not bid them farewell.

      On days that I may spend a few days out of town, I do not let Spot sleep alone in my room. He has another alternative: I send him to sleep with Dominic. Dominic takes him on his twice daily walks and Spot guards his time with Dominic jealously. So a night or two in Dominic’s room assures the dog an early morning walk upon their awakening.

A buddy can help chase your dog's blues away.

      When Spot had his first flight via cargo to attend an agility trial in the south, I added to his kennel box a used t-shirt and blanket which carried all the smells of his home and family here. I followed two weeks later and when we saw each other, Spot didn’t overreact. He just wondered where I’ve been all that time. Inside his kennel box was still the used t-shirt and blanket. He slept with those every night during those two weeks he was away from us.

      There are no set and hard rules on how to console your dog from his agony of separation from you. From Happy going out for his own “appointment” while his mistress goes out on hers, to Spot traveling miles away with a smelly t-shirt and blanket packed in his kennel box – all these minimize the dog’s agony of realizing he is apart from his pack family. As long as your method comforts your pet and keeps him from unleashing his unhappiness around him, you’ve gained a step further in understanding your canine companion better.

      That’s another triumph of pet parenting.