Dog Aggression – the Hard Way (Part I)

As the two dogs rolled onto an even surface, Spot got to his senses. The Dalmatian managed to get on his feet and bravely faced the angry Boxer. I saw a desperate collision now, both dogs on equal footing

            

              I never wrote about my experience with dog aggression. Dog aggression is the hardest lesson I ever encountered about taking care of dogs. But it has been the most pivotal because I learned it the hard way.

             

           When my Dalmatian Spotty entered our lives as a 6-week-old pup, he was cute as a button. That was back in 2002. The dog had a friendly and curious face, was very lively, and always wanted to play. Meanwhile, our 2-year-old Boxer, Butchie Boy, was dour and morose. I used to be in a very stressful job then, and to come home to see a happy dog bouncing to greet me at the door was a delight. So when I saw our sullen-looking Boxer, it was no joy to see him. His Boxer face was nothing in comparison to the Dalmatian pup’s happy expression.

            

Spot was incredibly cute as a puppy. His flashy coat color, lively expression, and playful personality made him far more agreeable to see than the Boxer's sullen expression.

              I ended up preferring the reception of Spot. I ignored the Boxer.

           

           In the weeks to come, since I took on Spot as a personal responsibility, I took the role seriously. I did constant research online about his breed and kept my attention on his training and care. I sought out the right dog food for him, sought out a good collar and leash, bought different bowls, and studied methods on housebreak training. I’ve never handled a dog personally like this before.

            

           At home, Spot quickly became the family favorite. The dog easily endeared himself to the rest of the household. He was always given attention first, given treats because it delighted us, walked first, fed first, petted first, and many others as first – totally displacing Butchie Boy who watched all this from the side quietly. 

         One day I discovered dog agility and wanted Spot trained for that. Two to three times a week I’d pack the youngster up for a dog school training (Spot started Basic Obedience at 6 months) and leave with him early in the morning. We’d be back in the late afternoon. 

          
         Spot consumed my attention at home. I had plans for him. I wanted him to be Manila’s first agility dog. I was learning too, along the way, in how to handle him. It was a fascinating time for me.

           

            One night, when Spot was a year old, I brought him out of the house, put on his collar, attached a leash and walked him out into the street. Butchie Boy barked and protested at the gate as he watched us go. We even passed him twice as I walked Spot up and down our street before we turned into the next block. Butchie Boy protested every time we passed him. 

            Finally, Spot and I arrived back to the house. Butchie Boy awaited our arrival. I opened the gate and when Spot walked in, I unleashed him. That’s when the Boxer attacked Spotty.

            The young teen-aged Dalmatian gave a squeak of surprise as a menacing Butchie Boy, by then 3 years older than he, grabbed him by the neck and pinned him down. The Boxer was clearly blinded with anger. There wasn’t much noise. Butchie Boy’s growls were muffled by his firm clamp on the Dalmatian’s neck while the young Dalmatian barely cried, surprised at the aggression upon him. 

      

Taken aback myself, I could find nothing within sight I could use to separate the dogs.  The driveway sloped down so the two dogs rolled down the incline in a cloud of dust, sweat, throaty growls and Spot’s legs flying in the air. I found a metal bucket and hurled it at the Boxer but the resulting clatter was not enough to cause a distraction. I must have thrown everything I could see in the yard – broom, garden spade, trash can, anything. 

As the two dogs rolled onto an even surface, Spot got to his senses. The Dalmatian managed to get on his feet and bravely faced the angry Boxer. I saw a desperate one-on-one now, both dogs on equal footing. Sometimes Spot was on top of the Boxer, other times the Boxer pinned him down. But the fight continued with minimal noise and they rolled again until the two were at the end of the driveway, approaching the garage. Finally, Butchie Boy collapsed. Spot, tail high in the air and wagging, amazingly energized, grabbed the Boxer by the neck, and started to drag his fallen opponent towards the garage like a piece of carcass. I found my voice. “Spot, no!” I commanded sternly.

The dog let go.

That was a serious dog fight. But what caused it, was it over, what to do next, I didn’t know anything about it from Adam.

(to be continued)

Dog Aggression – The Hard Way (Part II)

What happened to those happy times when our two dogs got along together?

I was thankful Spot had some basic training at that critical time so I was able to command him. The dog stepped back as I approached his fallen opponent. I saw the Boxer rise. He had fought till he collapsed of exhaustion. Both dogs were sweaty, panting and dirty. Spot’s colorful coat was stained with mud in many places. Butchie was spent. But he was alive.

All I could think of at that moment was to give the two a quick hosing because I will not let them indoors. Surprisingly, both dogs allowed me to hose them down and dry them up. They entered the house and settled into their respective corners for the night.

The next day, one of our househelp remarked that Butchie Boy’s coat was “full of holes.” He compared it to the kind of hole a nail sized “no.2” makes. But the Boxer’s skin had no tears. He asked me what had happened. I said the dogs had a fight last night.

We checked Spot. Amazingly the dog was alright.

That fight, however, was the start of things to come. Later that morning, as our househelp prepared Butchie Boy for his morning walk, I saw the Boxer attack Spot who was just passing by. Chairs tumbled to the floor as Butchie Boy lunged at the Dalmatian and Spot, who had earned his boxing gloves only last night, went into the defense. It took the rest of the household to pull the two dogs apart and restore some peace.

The incident was clearly worrisome. What was going on? I had no understanding what was going on in the two dogs’ heads. But for a vicious fight to occur inside a civilized home -– that’s not the place for it. Something was going very wrong.

I placed an SOS to Spot’s trainer, Jonathan, who arrived, assuring me that he could train the two dogs to behave themselves. We took the two to a neutral territory and the two dogs behaved, Butchie Boy trembling in obedience as Jonathan commanded them to lie down side by side. He walked the two dogs together and they followed him obediently.

But something was missing in the link. What was causing all this? Back home, the two dogs had to be separated now, an unhappy state of things. Both dogs were never tied before. We were now in a state of tension. What if they fought again? How do we stop this behavior?

Once, when I came home from work, my household help reported that the two dogs had a fight again. I found Spot with a bloodied ear that needed stitching at a nearby vet clinic.

As usual, my researches on dog aggression online and advice from a local dog “expert” (I hadn’t met Fred Alimusa yet) were varied and often clashing. Some gave suggestions on how to deal with a dog fight itself, while others advocated letting the dogs settle out the issue among themselves. The best may be the last one, but I couldn’t afford the vet bills in case it happened too often.

Confused, I could not find a solution that related to our situation. Until I found the cause, I would not be able to solve our dilemma.. Meanwhile, our two dogs lived tied in separate areas at home – and could not be friends at all. The tension was clearly affecting us too. We were always on our toes. What happened to those happy times?

One night, Jonathan arrived again, to repeat the training procedure he had done on the two dogs a few days earlier. The two performed as commanded, but as I watched the exercise a question rose in my mind. Sure, Jonathan could make them obey and they do. What about us? How sure are we they will obey us?

Jonathan's reply to this was that the training was still "on-going." I presumed he will teach us when the dogs have learned to obey? But I was not satisfied. We were on red alert. What do we do while the dogs were in the killing mode?

After the exercise, Jonathan tied the two dogs within viewing distance of each other (“to make them get used to seeing each other close”) but made sure their leashes prevented them from reaching each other. Then he left. In his absence, the dogs threw menacing glares at each other and exchanged growls. But they remained in their places.

Before turning in for the night, the dogs have to do their bathroom call. By now, some enlightenment had already entered my mind due to some reading I had been doing. Dr. Nicholas Dodman’s book, Dogs Behaving Badly (Bantam Books, 1999, USA) had talked of his client with dogs who kept fighting because the owner was unaware of their canine social hierarchy. I realized now Butchie Boy was the senior dog. He was entitled to be collared first and taken outside for a walk. I did so accordingly.

A few minutes later, I was back in the house, entering through the back door with Butchie Boy, and approached the grilled window where he was to be leashed for the night. Then I saw it happen.

I was in the process of coiling the Boxer’s leash around the grill when I saw Spot approach dangerously close to the Boxer. He was tied to a leg of the solid wood dining table but the leash had loosened. I saw the spotted dog launch a sneak attack on Butchie Boy from behind. 

 

A young Spot playfully nips at Butchie Boy's hind legs while Butchie looks at the camera. The two dogs were not yet opponents at the time of this photo.

I yelled at Spot but he was focused on the Boxer. Now the aggressor, he pounced on Butchie Boy. I yelled for help while I held the Boxer by the collar tightly in my hands. Butchie yelped and fought to be released by me. I held firm because he was not yet tied to the window. Suddenly I felt the pang of a needle prick the base of my palm. Surprised at the sharp pain, I let go and the Boxer turned towards his attacker. Another doggy brawl ensued inches away from me. 

Our househelp immediately rallied to the scene and in seconds, the dogs were separated. As the scene cleared, we saw on the white tiled floor bright red drops of glistening blood. They were mine. Butchie Boy had bitten me.

(to be continued)

Dog Aggression -- the Hard Way (Conclusion)

The cause of their fights was our fault.

It took many weeks after that dog fight, during the process of healing and more researching that the truth finally dawned on me. I recalled the first doggy fight I saw at the driveway and compared it to that last one where I got bitten. There was a difference. In those initial first brawls, Butchie Boy was the aggressor. In the last brawl, it was Spot.

The cause of their fights, I discovered, was our fault.

Dogs follow a social hierarchy among themselves. There is a dominant leader, the Senior or Top Dog, and there are the followers. They are wired to observe this and a dog owner not aware of this will cause dogs to brawl among themselves as they fight for their positions.

I had brainwashed Spot to believe he was the Top Dog because he was the family favorite. Simultaneously, Butchie Boy, having been there first, believed he deserved respect as the Top Dog. I did not teach Spot that – neither did we observe it as his humans. We had totally ignored the Boxer and whatever he had felt were his rights. We had petted Spot first, walked him first, put him his collar first, fed him first, and given him priority over everything in their lives together. That’s why the Boxer despised the Dalmatian newcomer from the start.

Finally identifying the cause of the fight, I concentrated now on this phenomenon called their canine social hierarchy. We had a lot of un-doing to do.

We started to observe the Boxer’s seniority over Spot by respecting his position first. He was fed first, given his collar first, and walked first.

The brawls were reduced considerably but they were not completely eradicated. Upon my arrival from work, to my disappointment I would sometimes receive reports from our househelp that there was a dog fight that day. But the dog fights were always instigated, this time, by Spot. Spot was now the aggressor, Butchie Boy was the defender.

In the end, it was Butchie Boy that lost his home. I had plans for Spot and wanted him for further training as a career agility dog. We rehomed Butchie Boy as Spot persisted in asserting his belief he was the Top Dog. As long as those two dogs lived with us, there would be no peace.

As Butchie Boy left us, Spot was our only dog for several months until I slowly built up a new pack. But by then, I knew how to handle our multi-dog household. I taught the other dogs their respective positions while assuring Spot he remained Top Dog. Each dog had his position no. 1, no. 2 and no. 3 and this was firmly observed by all of us, a method I picked up from Dr. Dodson’s book. In later years, as I met our famous dog whisperer, Fred Alimusa, I learned that petting Spot in front of the other dogs do not bother them as long as they know their positions.

 

My spotted pack a few years ago. "J.R." (left, back) is Spot's son, an accidental mix with a border collie. In foreground (center) is Toby. Their hierarchical positions are (l-r): dog number 3, 2, then 1 (Spot). We followed this social order of theirs strictly to avoid doggy squabbles.

Dogs are not humans. They do not react as humans do. What we humans dub as “jealousy” is a dog just asserting his position over an upstart trying to bypass him.

Sounds like corporate culture huh?   

Small Dog, Big Space

If you believe in yourself, you will make it -- even in a world of giants.

           At present, Packy, our lively and spirited Dachshund is on "vacation" visiting his girlfriend. He will be gone for a week. We're back to 3 dogs, all medium-sized -- 2 Dalmatians and 1 native dog with mixed German Shepherd blood (the adopted).

           The Dachshund Packy came into our lives, a gift from my cousin Marie, 7 years ago. But Packy was not our first encounter with his breed. Earlier there was another Dachshund named Tootsie. But Tootsie wasn't ours. She was stationed with us for awhile for housebreaking until Marie could take her home to keep her elderly mother company.

           When Tootsie came into our house as a 3-month old puppy she was small as a rat. But very lively. Her playmates towered above her -- a Boxer and a Dalmatian -- but the instigator to all those chases and wrestling matches was Tootsie. My elderly dad would watch the dogs at play, crossing and re-crossing the open doorway of his ground floor bedroom, wrestling and chasing each other until we could hear their breathless puffs. He would marvel at how that little pup could lead the pack from start to finish. Tootsie had no concept of size. "She doesn't know how small she is," my dad would remark.

            Frankly, my own observation on life from that little dog's attitude was a marvel: if you believe in yourself, you will make it even in a world of giants!

Tootsie cozies herself up to Spot during naptime.

           After a month, Tootsie's training period ended and my cousin Marie came to pick her up. But she saw the look in my dad's face. That little lively Dachshund pup who gave him so many days of amusement at her antics, would be with us no more. The result -- Marie sent my dad a new Dachshund pup a few weeks later. That was how Packy came to live with us.

           Packy had a different temperament, however. He was not as playful as Tootsie. He was more serious. What was more important to him was his leadership in the pack -- and asserting it. By that time I had 2 Dalmatians (the Boxer died already) so his packmates were taller than he. In their canine hierarchy at home, he was Dog No.3. But to be No.3 -- he refused. He kept bullying our Dog No. 2, our Dalmatian named Toby. After careful thought and noticing Toby's submissive nature, I switched the 2 dogs' positions, moving Packy up as Dog No.2 and Toby down as Dog No.3. Toby accepted his new social assignment obediently.

           Would Packy try to displace Spotty, my Dog No.1 too? I saw him trying. The Dachshund was more assertive; the Dalmatians were submissive. But to be sure, I defended Spot's social position. I knew Spot was accustomed to his position as the Top Dog. 

           In Packy's attempts to climb one more rung up the canine social ladder to displace Spot, there would be fights. I saw that Spot will not give way. For example, when it's walk time and the dogs get excited, my maids are instructed to follow the sequencing: Spot, Packy, then Toby. But because Packy is so noisy and assertive, sometimes the maid would be pressured to choose him first.

          The brawls would be ear-splitting. I'd hear Packy's hysterical screams loud enough to raise the dead above Spot's throaty growls. We'd rush to the scene and find the little dog grabbed by the scruff of his neck by the bigger Dalmatian and shaken vigorously side to side like a little rat. My maid would pull Spot's hind legs to distract the angry older dog and this would cause Spot to release the struggling Packy. But do you think that would end it? As soon as I get Packy in my hands the dog would slip out of my grasp quickly and attack right back! Screaming his head off he'd leap back towards Spot to continue the brawl.

   

Packy crosses the 4-foot high dog walk agility equipment. Though the bar jumps are barred from Dachshunds because of their long spine, Packy does well on the contact equipment (seesaw, dog walk, and tunnels)

           But Packy is not all tension and trouble. One of the most delightful experiences I have with him was when I tried to restore my childhood memories of dogs howling at the church bells located a block behind our house. I've lived here since I was born and the church behind us has grown bigger to one day have huge bells installed in their bell tower. When I was a kid we had 7 native dogs and we'd have an earful of howling and singing dogs every time the bells rang for Angelus, everyday for Mass, at Easter dawn Mass, or for midnight Christmas Mass. Life was simple then, and the problems of modern man and congested city life was yet unheard of. So when urbanization reached fever pitch level many years later, a "noise pollution" complaint was raised in the neighborhood. The priests ceased to use the bells. For the next several decades the church bells were silent. As a result our dogs had no chiming bells to howl to -- and nothing to pass on to next-generation pack members.

   

           But by the next century, Packy revived it. One day the church, now a cathedral shrine, decided to revive the old customs. When the bells rang merrily in the air after a silence of 5 decades, Packy howled long and hard at it. Oh wait, he did not howl. It was more of a rap. It was a fast staccato kind of bark with rhythmic pauses, like he was rapping. A week after, Toby the Dalmatian picked it up, like a back-up singer. Toby howled like a real dog, his neck stretched to the sky, howling to his heart's content.

   

           Our childhood "landmark" memory was restored by Packy.

   

           Living with a Dachshund gives you stories to remember during his lifetime. The breed is feisty, lively, creative, independent, will try to outsmart you, and will always entertain you.

Packy emotes like a canine model at a Christmas greeting pictorial I did last year for an e-card to send to friends and family.

           However, when Packy left us to live with his girlfriend for a week, this small little dog left a void in our lives. The house fell silent. I didn't know what "real gentlemen" my other dogs were. Dalmatians are known to bark sparingly and I finally saw that trait. I realized that little dog influenced the rest of the pack, making the rest noisy and rowdy as he was. But with Packy gone, the dogs were well behaved. Gone was the rivalry. When there was a visitor they came to inspect but there was no competition. They didn't jump, bark, and bump around.

   

           The day after Packy left, the church bells rang that early morning at 6:00am. I was half-expecting to hear the usual racket. Our half-darkened house echoed with the sound of the bells but no dog howled. With no Packy to instigate it, no dog howled at the bells.

   

           In our house, it's Packy who influences the pack. This little dog truly believes in himself that our bigger dogs have learned to follow him.  

The Vet Survival Kit

“That’s Spot’s favorite!” I exclaimed. “He’ll go crazy over that!” Fred gave me a knowing eye. “That’s the idea,” he said.

Today, at eleven years of age (or 60 years old in human terms), my star Dalmatian Spotty has gone through 6 vets. I first brought him to a famous vet when he was a puppy and everything would have stayed alright as he grew older. But the line of patients was often long in that clinic and our waiting period would take all morning. If Spotty just needed a regular check-up or a simple vaccination, sitting at that reception lounge all morning wasn’t worth it. I thought of trying the neighborhood vets next time.

I tried 2 vets nearby back home but with disastrous results. Though they did a good job giving Spot his stitches after the usual dog fights of his reckless youth, the dog always remembered his experience with them. He froze every time we were a few meters away from their clinics on our afternoon walks. We could not pass in front of them.

Clear signs of traumatic memories here.

The fourth vet I knew was familiar to Spot but the relationship between them wouldn’t work. Spot knew her from our agility practices because she was often there. When I took him to her clinic for the first time, the dog was about to alight from my SUV when he suddenly glimpsed the vet clinic outside (how he knew it was a clinic I didn't know it yet) and the glint of terror flashed in his eyes. His face broke into disappointment and he whirled back inside and froze. The vet had to enter the vehicle to give him his shots. I watched as she instructed Dominic, who was with me, to hug the trembling dog. We did not manage that situation well for the dog’s sake.

During one walk with Spot in my neighborhood one afternoon, the dog froze like a rock as we passed a bank office. I almost fell over my face when the leash suddenly strained with no warning. I tugged, not understanding what the dog was upset about. But he refused to budge. I looked at his locked forelegs and frozen stance, a dead weight. I recognized the reaction as identical to his fear whenever he saw his former vet clinics. Then I noticed that the bank had a glass façade, just like those vet clinics. He probably thought I was going to bring him to one of those places he dreaded so much. So I let the dog rest and collect himself, then a few moments later upon realizing we were not going to enter the building, he stood up and followed me. 

Toby (left) and Spotty (right) all dressed for a Halloween event wait in anticipation inside my SUV. Drives are always exciting times for dogs but when they find themselves being delivered to a vet -- it's the ultimate spoiler of their trust.

Spot’s “puppy” vet’s clinic had no such glass façade it being a residence. We returned there the next time Spot needed a check-up. She was surely a familiar face (or smell) to the dog and I expected Spot would trust her.

But Spot didn’t trust her either. The dog froze as we approached the examination table and he refused to climb it even when it was lowered to its lowest. An aide had to lift him up, we had to muzzle him, and I had to distract him with a head massage (in my amateurish way) while he trembled, salivated nervously, and growled as the vet got blood samples.

In that visit, it turned out Spot had ehrlichiosis. This called for a round of checkups and blood samples. We were to return in 2 weeks. By then, I knew my dog enough. After that first visit – Spot will not want to go back there again.  

I will have a problem in my hands.

That was when I touched base again with the country’s first dog whisperer, Fred Alimusa. Fred lived on a beautiful hillside property in Amadeo, Cavite. It would be a long drive away. But I had a traumatized dog in my hands and I needed his expertise.

At my one-on-one session, Fred explained that his aim was to condition Spot to like going to the vet. First, because every dog needs a pack leader to feel secure, I have to assure Spot that I was in charge of the situation. We performed the heel-and-sit exercise many times at the house. Next we got the dog to climb on top of a low table as if it was the examination table at the vet clinic. These exercises were to assert my authority as the dog obeyed my commands. I was to make Spot understand that I was his leader and that I will take care of him. “Don’t worry, sagot kita (I will answer for you)!” was Fred’s favorite expression so Spot will remember to trust me when he starts to feel anxious.

Next, we drove off to nearby Tagaytay to find an available vet clinic. Along the ridge, we stopped by a store selling freshly made pork cracklings. Fred chose the ones with a bit of meat attached to the skins. “That’s Spot’s favorite!” I exclaimed. “He’ll go crazy over that!”

Fred gave me a knowing eye. “That’s the idea,” he said.

Upon arriving at a vet clinic (another glass façade), we did not enter the premises right away. We were now in an actual situation. Fred made me do several heel-and-sit exercises at the parking lot. Under his instruction, I edged toward the clinic with every round we made. Once, we stopped right before the door, but we turned away and made another round of heel-and-sit. Finally we entered. Spot followed obediently.

Inside the clinic, I carried that bag of pork cracklings. It was my bait — and also my reward. At my command, the dog climbed the examination table obediently (mouth salivating, I bet) and after he had done so, I gave him a fresh crispy tidbit which Spot crunched happily.

After our dry run session at the clinic, Fred reminded me never to feed Spot his favorite snack food unless it’s at the vet clinic. “Only at the vet clinic,” he emphasized. “That way, every time he sees the vet clinic, he will salivate just thinking of his favorite treat. He knows that’s where he will taste it.”

Of course, the actual vet visit still had some differences and though I wished badly that Fred was there, he had his confidence in me. He knew I would be able to manage it. At Spot’s return visit to his “puppy” vet, I walked him up and down the road first, doing the heel-and-sit exercise, then I turned towards the gate leading to the clinic (no glass façade this time) — and Spot followed. I had with me a small container of barbecued meat (cracklings are high in salt and uric acid for dogs and although they love it so much I chose a safer treat for them. Besides, they don't eat barbecued meat often either).

When Spot’s turn came, the dog surprisingly entered the treatment room with me and climbed the examination table at my command. He had some anxieties but he was manageable. But I did not cuddle him. I fed him bits of meat sporadically while he was on the table to keep him distracted.  The blood sampling was a little tricky because I knew if Spot saw that and I gave him enough time to react to it, he will be too upset to want a treat. This was a case of timing. So I moved first and distracted him at once with a treat. The vet got the samples. The dog did not prove to be difficult.

In subsequent months, as I brought the other dogs to the state university vet hospital, Spot would come along as “moral support,” as the student vets there described him in amusement. I noticed the university hospital seemed an ideal place for dogs. The open corridors and breezy rooms contained no smells that reeked of fear or medicines enough to scare any doggy patient. Noticing Spot showed no reaction whenever he entered the treatment room to accompany a pack member dog, I ended up registering him there as a patient. On weekdays, the waiting period is so short. I always carry our Vet Survival Kit — a small container of barbecued meat whenever we go to the vet hospital because it has worked so well.

“I do not know of any dog who will not work for a piece of barbecue,” Fred once told me. 

Fred Alimusa shows how to rehabilitate dogs with aggression problems, in this case Toby (at right) who has trouble meeting new dogs. He left behind a legacy of invaluable learning that we can never never replace. We learned to understand our dogs because of him.

Now to our dogs, the vet clinic is a happy place where they get to taste barbecue!