“I think Gilligan needs professional dog training,” I said, huddled in the corner of our couch while our 16-month-old Labrador Retriever ran sprints from the couch to an armchair in the dining room and back, gnawing a shredded shopping bag in his mouth, leaving crumpled carpets and plastic bits in his wake.
As I’d done with our last two family dogs, I’d intended to train Gilligan myself. Our previous pets, Dinghy and Moby, faired well under my dedicated tutelage. On puppy walks, I simply stopped in grassy areas to practice “sit,” “stay,” “down,” and other basic commands.
I’d seen a few episodes of “The Dog Whisperer,” after all. Why would I pay someone else to train our dogs when I was a veritable expert dog owner myself?
While it was true that Dinghy never learned to “heel” — in fact, he nearly tore my arm out of its socket while bolting after rabbits, squirrels and sand crabs — his keen hunting instincts were admirable. My proudest dog owner moment was the day I taught Dinghy to open our door using a tennis ball on a rope. This came in handy, until I left Dinghy alone to run errands, and came home to find a WWI-style trench dug across our backyard and the dog inside taking a nap on the white cotton quilted guest bed.
While I’d gladly take credit for Moby’s obedience, the real truth is that our second dog was an unusually submissive, easy-going lab. During puppy training, he’d look up at me, perpetually confused by commands to “sit,” “stay,” or “lay down.” But determined to please, he usually did something good anyway.
During his one-year check up, I took the veterinarian aside to voice my concerns over Moby’s abnormal compliance. “Hey Doc,” I whispered, “can dogs be, uh, mentally challenged, or uh, you know, born with a low IQ?”
The veterinarian laughed and replied, “You don’t want a dog that’s smarter than you.” I wasn’t sure if he was insulting me or giving me advice, but I accepted his words at face value and enjoyed Moby for what he was — a very good boy.
Then, Gilligan came along.
Our training sessions began as soon as we brought him home from the Mennonite farm in Pennsylvania where he was born. “Tsssht!” I sputtered, mimicking the Dog Whisperer’s characteristic admonishment when Gilly chewed chair legs, stole socks, jumped on furniture, piddled on the floor, dug in my houseplants, or sunk his fish-hook teeth into my hand.
Unlike Moby, Gilly thought the noises coming out of my mouth weren’t commands to which he must submit, but rather, challenges that upped the ante. In Gilly’s brain, every day was a new game that he was determined to win.
At home, Gilligan constantly played. Despite supplying him with baskets filled with dog-friendly amusements like collagen chews, rip-resistant cloth toys, and brain-teasing devices with tiny compartments to hide treats, Gilly maimed, swallowed, punctured, gutted or destroyed TV clickers, reading glasses, shoes, treasured stuffed animals, board games, notebooks, and laundry detergent bottles.
To Gilly, our fenced yard was the great Serengeti, where he hunted for prey. Unable to catch lightening-fast squirrels, rabbits and birds, he stalked something easier to kill — delivered packages. Amazon and USPS parcels always arrived the same way, tossed over the gate onto our porch, where Gilly believed they’d landed specifically for him. Immediately sinking his teeth into their cardboard or bubble-wrapped flesh, he’d run around the yard celebrating his victory before tearing his victims into tiny, wind-blown bits.
The walks were the final straw. No command, “tshhht!”, treat, pinch collar, or harness would stop Gilly from pulling hard on his leash, dragging me, helpless, from corner to corner.
Unable to tame our naughty new Lab, we recently sought professional help. Although we didn’t buy him a lava lamp or a Twin XL bedspread, the training academy’s exorbitant fees and boarding requirement made it seem like Gilly was off to college.
After two weeks of 24/7 training, Gilly graduated and came home. But then, he stared up at me, waiting for the calm, assertive leader he’d been taught to follow.
“I think I need professional training,” I proclaimed, realizing that there are no naughty dogs, only naughty dog owners.
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