Copyright (c) 2000 by Michael Finley

So what are we to do.

When you want your dog to be one thing, and he persists in being something else, you really have only two options. You can make him change (and yourself unhappy, because he never will). Or you can accepting that the way he is, is the way he is.

Wise dogpeople eventually opt for the latter course. But many are the tales of people who kept hoping that their dog's protective impulse would kick in, but instead greeted every malefactor on the threshold with kisses and licks.

I had these choices about Beau's dominance:

·        I could break him. With a force collar or electric collar you can make a dog realize anything, no matter how urgent the countervailing impulse. You simply hurt him, a lot, when he growls at another dog. Eventually he stops.

·        I could remove him from dog society completely. This is what many books recommend -- not as a desired state, but because it is all you can do.

·        You can watch your dog like a hawk -- even if your whole approach to dogrearing has been laissez-faire.

For me, it was no choice at all. The first is repugnant, and the second is almost as bad. Because of my nature, and because of Beau's nature, I was stuck with the last option. It allowed Beau to keep being Beau -- but it meant I couldn’t keep being me. I was the one who needed to change.

I began to pick and choose very carefully the situations in which I would allow Beau offleash.

On neighborhood walks, I kept him on-leash, until it was very late and I could be reasonably sure everyone (and their dogs) had gone in for the night.

I avoided parks and areas places where dogs did not gather frequently. Chance meetings of dogs who don’t know each other, and who may be poorly socialized, are much more volatile than the "moveable feast" of dogs at regular dog walks. Poodlevania and other places were OK because dogs there knew how to behave, because they came there every day. City parks were much more dangerous.

I kept a constant eye out for trouble, particularly if I let Beau off-leash. I daydreamed less on our walks, and I paid vigilant attention to what was going on -- preparing myself mentally for other dogs, runners, bikers, police.

Along with a litter bag and leash, I carried a stick -- for fending, not throwing. You never know when you might need one.

I learned to judge what sorts of dogs were most likely to be problematic. Dogs most likely to raise a fuss are young neutered males like Beauregard. Dogs most likely to outright attack are un-neutered males.

Females who are fearful pose special problems -- because they feel threatened, they are much more likely to bite and draw blood than two males haggling over their superiority.

Certain breeds bear watching. I seldom worry about golden or Labrador retrievers -- Beau finds them dull as dishwater anyway. Herding dogs like collies tend to bark at Beau, but just to keep him in line.

Male dogs of fighting breeds are dangerous for us -- boxers, pit bulls, bull terriers, and the like. I haven’t had problems with female pit bulls. Guard dogs like Rottweilers and Dobermans may look ferocious, but I have found they tend to be pretty gentle in practice. Chesapeakes tend to be crazy and in-your-face, which annoys Beau.

And puppies, especially males, are trouble. I immediately clap a lead on Beau and explain to the human with the puppy that Beau is affronted by their joie de vivre.

Surrender

But as the months passed, a funny thing began to overtake us. Beau entered chronological adulthood. Though his worst habits -- competitiveness, impulsivity, and intolerance -- remained as deep-set as ever, there was something mellower and wiser about him. He knew the lay of the land now. He accepted and even appreciated my control. He stopped that awful plaintive bargaining for yet another walk, yet another hour in the park. When he came home, he put his chin to the floor, and he rested.

And I began to change, too -- to surrender to him.

It dawned on me that this was it. Beauregard would never be perfect. He would spend his whole life wobbling between the puppy state and desirous of continuous attention and fun, and the glowering grouch state, always on the lookout for some other dog to set straight.

My hope for a dog of a generous spirit, a dog of great soul, a bodhisatva dog of  life and light who would give richly back to me, in wisdom and inspiration, gradually receded.

What happens is that you recognize that the dog you have, for all his shortcomings -- in fact because of them -- is the dog you deserve. You and the dog advance developmentally together, as on a leash -- you toward human adulthood, and the dog toward being your companion and friend.

You know how people joke that people choose dogs that look like them. When I got Beau I figured I had avoided that stereotype. He is a glorious sight in his black coat and crimson collar, and I am a dumpy middle-aged man not known for sartorial flair.

But deep down, underneath the finery, the stereotype holds up. Beau knows in his heart he is hot -- that is, after all, the essence of his dominance -- and in my heart, that is pretty much what I think, too. That the world disagrees pointedly and frequently is unimportant.

In little ways I have often walked away from social occasions having accomplished the same task that is his goal in life -- impress and dismiss, impress and dismiss. Beau is just luckier than me -- when I act that way, people let me know about it. He, being a dog, gets away with it.

I realized, too, that Beau's dominance was the key to his beauty. All his charm, all his humor, all his cocky confidence, were expressions of his willingness to confront nonsense around him with the power that was within. His life is a hunt -- for bunnies, for supremacy, for answers, for love. He needs that edge. It's part of his soul.

Take away the dominance, whether by electroshock or nagging, and you take away the dog. I had already taken away his sexuality -- I figure I'll leave the rest.

But I've got to watch him.

This is not a shallow intuition. The people who invented the poodle, a thousand or two thousand years ago, whoever they were, were an odd combination of practical, crazy, foolish and wise. Just as they created a regally coated creature who would be undone by the coat within, so was his kind bred to be social yet aloof, doggy yet distant. I identify these traits, and I recognize them. We are a matched set.

Now that I realize how needy he is, and understand that need, maybe I could forgive him, and forgive myself for being the same way?

I mean, for all his faults, he is still a pretty good dog.

Soul Kiss

Beau has grown and matured in his two years among us. If I tell him to stay, he stays. This is valuable trick. A few weeks ago we were by the river and he came upon a big mother snapping turtle laying eggs in a ditch along by the path. Beau, running ahead of me, had never seen anything so curious and trotted toward the reptile to investigate at close hand. Alarmed at the possibility of having a three-legged poodle, I cried out, "Stay!" and Beau looked at me, gauged my seriousness, and froze like a deer in headlights.

He knows I am trying to protect him. He knows the world is dangerous. He does what I say sometimes. He still won’t come when I say come.

He no longer charges out the door and into the arms of every unfortunate pedestrian passing by, as he did as a puppy. He no longer, praise God, growls viciously at every dog he meets, as he did as a hormone-wracked teenager.

But he is still capable of doing either, because each day is still a random rotation of his transactional personality parts -- his child/puppy, parent/dog, and adult/friend components. As a puppy he is still capable of playing catch with himself on the living room floor, flinging a rawhide chew across the room with his teeth, and then bounding after it, as if someone else threw it.

But he is redeemed from all this by the emergence of his adult self. I think it is not possible for a poodle to be a bodhisattva dog outright. The breed is ultimately too finicky, and too funny, to be an icon of sunny acceptance. But I get glimpses now of a rich, warm maturity in him, and a deep doggy appreciation of the live he has been allowed to live.

His latest thing is his soul kiss. He comes to me, looks sincerely into my eyes. He places his forearms on my shoulders, dominance-style. And he licks me, tilting his head this way and that to communicate how deep his love is, how perfect his devotion. He is my dog, he is saying to me. Mine only, mine completely.

And since the day of my knee operation, and he sat by me as I slipped into unconsciousness, and he hovered over me, licking my wound like a great gorilla nurse, I have felt I could no longer say he has not given me anything. It was a new role for him, and he performed it well, and it has changed our relationship for the better.

Three Markers

My life with Beau had three markers in it so far. The first marker was his puppyhood, a time of playing. The second was a transitional period, adolescence, during which I became confused and angry, and so did he. Now we were embarked on a third stage, and this one has been marked by anxiety and protectiveness.

It happened that less than a week after Beau's operation, he and I were delicately making our way through the Crosby Farm area along the Mississippi. (The delicacy having more to do with Beau's throat wound than his neutering.)

All of a sudden, a German shepherd that had been coming toward us on leash, snapped his leash and dashed toward us. He was on us in about two seconds, and the woman who had been leading his was shouting out to me, "He's never done this before!" Somehow I got between the two dogs -- Beau was in no condition to defend himself -- and began kicking the shepherd, who even in attack mode knew he was not supposed to attack me. His owner and I got him back on leash and we resumed our walk.

Poor, once wicked Beau, was just a shivering, shaved, defenseless creature.

It occurred to me that everything Brigitte had said came to pass. "Stick it in their faces -- they don’t like that!" From that day on, I have taken to carrying a stick with me on our walks.