Gaits of Heaven by Susan Conant Read Free Book Online Page A

with food and thus becomes a secondary reinforcer that precisely marks behavioral perfection, so to speak. Dolfo did great. By the tenth time I’d “charged the clicker” by clicking and giving a treat, he was watching me with an expression that said, “Ah-hah! Click means that food is coming!” I went on to explain that we’d click and treat when Dolfo produced outdoors.
    “You see what Holly’s doing?” Ted asked Eumie. “Instilling hope! Showing that healing is possible.”
    Heeling with two es was possible, if a bit advanced for Dolfo and his owners, so my misunderstanding was inevitable. Fortunately, I caught on when Ted said something about recovery, and instead of sounding stupid or ridiculous, I said that we had every reason to feel hopeful. The bird feeder professional having finished his work, we then spent about ten minutes outside in the fenced yard, where Dolfo cooperated by lifting his leg on trees and shrubs, thus giving Ted and Eumie opportunities to click and treat.
    If reinforcing desired behavior were sufficient to house-break a dog, we’d have been all set. As it was, I had to harp on the need to prevent accidents indoors. When we were back in the family room, where I sat on a couch with Dolfo lying at my feet and studying my face, I said, “We have to remember that Dolfo can’t be given the chance to practice the behaviors that we don’t want.”
    “Oy vey!” said Ted. “Where to begin? You have to understand that we are a merged family. We have a daughter, Caprice, from Eumie’s previous marriage, and a son, Wyeth, from mine.”
    “And Dolfo,” said Eumie, “is the child we have together. We are deeply committed to providing him with unconditional love.”
    Oy vey! Where to begin? Operant conditioning is about as conditional as you can get.
    “You see,” said Ted, “communicating negative emotions can give the child the message that he is globally bad. So, he adapts by splitting off that part of himself. And what began as a whole, unified, healthy organism becomes divided.” He paused dramatically. “Divided against itself.”
    “And what are possessions, after all?” Eumie demanded. “Things! Objects!”
    “Maybe we can agree,” I ventured, “that soiling outdoors is preferable to soiling indoors.”
    On that point, we did agree. Ted again mentioned the dog’s breeder, who claimed that golden Aussie huskapoos housebreak themselves. It said so on her Web site.
    “The Web site lied,” I said. “Furthermore, Dolfo has had the chance to practice going in the house. He thinks it’s just fine. The behavior has become a habit, and unless we can break the habit, he’s going to keep on doing it.”
    Their faces fell. “You want us to lock him in a cage,” Eumie charged. “That’s what the vet said to do. Dr. Cushing. We need to find someone else.”
    “She has an excellent reputation. But there are alternatives to crate training.” I mentioned some: keeping the dog on leash every second, confining him to the little powder room near the kitchen, and so on.
    Far from recognizing my advice as emanating from a Higher Power, they continued to regard me with suspicion and took turns explaining that my suggestions translated into making Dolfo feel cut off, rejected, frustrated, and unloved.
    To borrow a word of Ted’s, meshugass! Madness! If it hadn’t been for Dolfo, I’d have walked out. But the foolish-looking dog got to me, in part because his background and experience predicted a disaster I just wasn’t seeing, namely, a horrible case of aggression. He’d been bred, I suspected, for nothing but money, sold to people who knew nothing about dogs, and taught nothing about the rules of canine conduct, yet far from becoming a danger, he was sweet, zany, weirdly loveable, and touchingly eager to learn to be a good boy.
    “Let’s give ourselves some time to mull matters over,” I suggested. “You can use the clicker and treats when you take Dolfo out. But you have to