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We finally have enough snow to get the skis out, barely, but just enough. Nico enjoys the running he gets to do once we get going on the skis, but he remains nervous of the hook-up and the skis themselves. The same is true of the snowshoes. Nico's first winter here was a one where the snow was hip deep some places in the woods. Initially when he was running away from me on the long lead I had to plough through that just in my boots. Needless to say my legs got very strong! I brought the snowshoes out, thinking it would just be a matter of him getting used to them but the moment he saw them he cowered in the dog house. They were not new to him, they were terrifying! So I left them standing in a snowbank outside the kennel for a day thinking he just needed to see them. I was wrong: I could not get him to come out of the kennel with them anywhere in view. I tried lying them down in the snow, near the kennel. That helped: now he would bolt out of the kennel and run as fast as he could to get away from them.
We usually have lots of snow, this winter and last being abysmal exceptions. Without snowshoes, walking in the woods off the packed trails is impossible. The trails themselves are impassable until I have broken them down with the snowshoes. If we were going to walk Nico would have to learn about snowshoes. I began by taking the snowshoes into the kennel, lying them down, and sitting on them. I'd place treats strategically so that Nico would have to come out of the house to get the first round and come close to the shoes for the second. Eventually I hoped he would actually step on the shoes and take treats from the rawhide lattice itself.
It took a couple of weeks, beginning with many days of absolutely no movement from Nico. But eventually he came out of the house with the shoes there, and in time we got to the place where if I put the snowshoes on ahead of time, Rick could hand me Nico on the long flexi. Nico would take off as soon as I lifted a foot, and I got good at running on snowshoes.
My snowshoes are the traditional type, Ojibwa style with long tails, not the kind that are a little larger than your boots, have little float and are meant for use on professionally groomed trails. Needless to say I fell down a lot, which scared Nico further. So I cultivated playing dead. When I fell down I would just lie there in the snow while Nico strained on the leash to get away from the evil ground beasts attached to my feet. I lay perfectly still however for long periods of time. Eventually, as dogs do in the absence of stimuli, he forgot about his fear, became curious and came in for a look. When he finally got close enough to sniff my face and lick my cheeks I quietly told him he was a good dog. Moving slowly I would get up. Initially this just caused him to run away again, but in time he came to see that all that happened when I fell down, was I got up and we continued our walk. Even better, when he came in to see if I was still alive, he got a cookie.
Nico would never have anything to do with treats when he was in full panic. Holding out a treat when he was like that would just send him skittering away. The trick is always to sit very still and let the lack of movement or sound persuade him that nothing was happening. I also never tightened up on the leash when he came in at those times. Not only did he need to see that nothing was happening, he also needed to know that he was free to get away if he choose. That he would take a treat was a sign his panic had subsided. It was always as much of a reward for me, as it was for him.
In time of course Nico got used to the snowshoes. I am, as we begin to collect snow in our fourth winter, generally able to get them on and go down the trail with him without too much trouble. I had to go through the same process with the skis, Oddly enough he was not as frightened of the skis, although the flailing poles gave him pause, and he is always nervous when we start out. He has something seriously bad in his mind about the snowshoes though. Even after all these years, the first time out each winter, he still runs away at the sight of them, and is always skittish the first few times out.
As winter progresses and the snowshoes or the skis become a daily event however, these behaviors become half hearted, habits without meaning. Then he enjoys the freedom to go off trail the snowshoes allow us when the snow is deep, and the speeds he is allowed to run at when we ski. I know he is enjoying it because about two minutes into the run, the tail comes up, the ears point forward. After about ten minutes, if we stop for a breather and he lies down in the snow and wriggles like a puppy: snow bath! Then he's up again and ready to run, no signs of fear or uncertainty.
Temple Grandin, a highly respected animal behaviorist says fear is far worse for animals than pain. I read Grandin a number of years ago, and have thought about the fear versus pain equation often when working with Nico. Nico has never been hurt since coming into Rescue. And yet, he remains skittish, and readily reverts to fear behaviors even if just for an instance before responding more positively to the cues we have taught him. Fear is worse than pain: it makes sense to me. If an animal is in pain, they tend to keep quiet about it. Pain says you are already hurt therefore vulnerable. Lie low, stay quiet, and heal. Fear on the other hand is all about "Trouble is here. Run. If you can't run, fight." Fight or flight is not about pain, it is about fear.
That is what we see in Nico. We don't know exactly what happened to him in his formative period that he is so fearful. We're pretty sure he was hit and hit often because of the way he reacts to raised hands, fast motions, lifted objects. We're pretty sure he was hurt by men because, while many dogs have a preference for men or women, Nic run away when any man approached, even Rick in the beginning. If he couldn't get far enough away, he would try to hide, and if he couldn't hide, the cowering and shaking was something you would not want to see.
When Nico first came to us even I could not approach him with something in my hands, not even mitts instead of gloves. And it was months before he would walk by Rick's swinging hands on the trail, and even when he would pass, he still gave those hands wide berth. That he was hurt, and not just spooked by certain kinds of people doing certain kinds of things, is clear from the intensity and consistency of his fear.
Hurt heals. Fear stays. Fear is a survival mechanism. To interfere with any animal who is trying to survive is a mistake. So when Nico is frightened, which was all the time when he first came here, I opted for stillness. From this I learned that effective communication with my dog, any dog, begins with sitting still. In Nico's case what it means is I sit down on the ground, and pretend I'm a rock. It is how I got him to come to me time and again when his fear had sent him running in frantic circles. If he was on a leash I could have dragged him in. Or if loose in the kennel, I could have cornered him. But if I'd done that, he would not only be too afraid to learn anything other than that I was scary, but also physically unable to do anything but fight. Increasing his fear was not an object. And I certainly did not want to test his fight threshold.
Indeed, the first few months I had to put a chain on the first two feet of the lead, for he would and did chew soft leashes through with one bite at the slightest hint of entrapment. Forced restraint only makes a scared animal more frantic. But Nico got over all that because the second part of our approach was about choice. As much as possible, I tried to always give Nico the choice. If I sat still long enough, he could choose to come in and say hello. If he didn't, I just left, sometimes after an hour, sometimes after two. If he came in, and I didn't try to grab him, he would run away, and then come back, staying for longer and longer periods of time until I was able to put my hand on the leash and say, "Let's go." Then he would walk with me and not attack the leash. Soon he learned that the sooner he came in, the sooner we went for a walk. Always his choice. And nothing bad happened.
When Nico was loose, the first step had to be to get the leash on him. I learned early on that he didn't like you reaching for his collar to hook up. He would tolerate it and not bite, but if he could he would twist and pull away. If he had any space at all, he would run.
I do not like to keep a collar on a dog all the time anyway, so we began using a leather half choke collar on him. The half choke has the advantage of a choke collar in that it can be pulled up pretty tight when you need to make sure the dog won't slip out, but unlike a fixed buckle collar it doesn't have to be that tight all the time. "Half-choke" is a misleading term for the device I use, as there is no "choke-collar" effect involved unless the collar is set too tight. There is a ring, called a martingale, that prevents the collar from closing up any tighter than the chosen setting. Our collars are always set so that they only get tight enough to prevent them from slipping over the dog's head when restraint is mandatory, not tight enough to cut off their breathing as a traditional choke collar does.
With this type of collar the opening can be made very large so it can be slipped over the dog's head. Because ours are made of about 3/4 inch wide leather and not chain, the loop does not collapse when you hold it with one hand. I learned with Nico that trying to hold his head and put the collar on just made him wrestle to get away. So I turned my back to him and stood very still, holding out the collar like you would hold our your hand for someone to take hold. In time I would be rewarded with the feeling of him putting his own head into the circle of the collar, then coming forward. "O.k. Let's walk together, it felt like he was saying." That instant when he, in effect puts his hand in mine, was and remains, the most gratifying moment for me with Nico.
Now I have grown used to a dog who puts his own head in the collar. Of course, puppy Benny doesn't do this. He's too busy wriggling around, head butting or wanting tummy rubs. But with the aid of a treat positioned on the other side of the collar rather than in the hand trying to put the collar on, Benny is beginning to get the hang of putting his own collar on. I did laugh though one day: I found myself thinking, "Hm. My spooky dog will put his own head in the collar, but I can't get this collar on puppy-skirm-a-lot to save my life!"
Which underscores just one of the many differences between workign with a dog like Nico, and bringing along a puppy like Benny. What I describe here that I do with any of my dogs, is not meant to be taken as a universal "training solution." Sitting down with a puppy, as I do with Nico, is usually taken as an invitation to play. Sitting down in the presence of a dog with dominance issues is a mistake unless you are prepared to assert yourself from that position. I've done it, but it requires a lot of nerve and even more critter sense. Turning your back on a dog with dominance issues is also not something to be done unless you know what you are doing, the dog whom you are doing it with. Indeed I do not believe in any formulaic solutions when living creatures are involved, and especially damaged ones.
If anything, what I have learned from Nico is that the key is always to watch and listen, and respect your dog's nature. Nico is, by way of whatever bad experiences a nervous dog, and possibly just by nature, extremely sensitive. His nervousness can be a liability, but his sensitivity, when respected, makes him a dog who is always ready to respond, and respond positively. That is, if we do our homework. There are no universals with dogs or any animals except this: deeds not words are what matter. Dogs don't talk and they don't tell stories to remind them of what happened yesterday or to influence someone else's behavior. With animals, what we do in this moment will determine what happens in the next. If someone asks me I say, when in doubt, do nothing. Wait for your dog tell you where he's at, what he's thinking about, what he needs you do to in order for him to do what you want him to do.
Now I'm going skiing with Nico. He is sleeping at my feet at the moment. If I just get up, he will startle awake, and be on edge for maybe half a minute. He'll get over it because he's secure in his home here, and confident that I will always be his protector. But if instead of getting up, I call his name softly first, he will open and turn those golden green eyes my way. He will look at me with something akin to the sun rising out of a grey gold dawn. Then his tail will start to twitch and when I say, "Let's go!" he will leap up. It will not be to flee or to fight, but to have some fun, and together we will make joy.
