Read Online Ruffly Speaking by Susan Conant - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Susan Conant
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shows and trials, and writing for Dog’s Life. Leah, however, had undergone a religious conversion experience, seen the light, and opened her heart to Bernie Brown, proponent of the “no-force method” of dog training, the only trainer ever to earn more than 5,000 OTCH points—1,472 points last year alone—revered instructor, lively dog writer, and altogether a guy worth taking into your dog-loving heart.
On Saturday night, when Steve and I went out to dinner, I got a break from the unrelenting “Bernie Brown says...” but when we got back, Leah and her last summer’s boyfriend, Jeff Cohen, were on the sidewalk on Appleton Street, and the first words I heard when I opened the car door were, “Jeff, Bernie Brown says…”
Jeff is absolutely everything you could ask for in your cousin’s boyfriend—lovely kid, great sense of humor, blond curls like a Renaissance angel’s, Celtics fan—and, as if all that weren’t enough, he’d just put a C.D.X.— obedience title, Companion Dog Excellent—on his Border collie, Lance, brilliant breed, splendid dog. (Border collie. Not Lassie. Smaller. Black and white, tough and wiry, world’s best herding breed, top agility breed, Frisbee genius, obedience natural.)
“The underlying philosophy,” Leah was saying, “is that you don’t give the dog a chance to screw up. You structure everything so that the only thing the dog can do is what you want.”
As Leah droned on, Kimi was pulling on her leash and using her front paws to excavate a giant hole at the base of a Norway maple. Meanwhile, Lance, the object of Leah’s pontification, sat in flawless heel position at Jeff’s left side, black and white body perfectly straight, head turned to take in Jeff’s face. If a flock of sheep had turned onto Appleton Street, Kimi would have torn the leash from Leah’s hands and murdered them all. Lance, C.D.X., born with sheep on the brain, wouldn’t have let his eerie
Border collie stare wander from his master’s eyes until Jeff had released him. And Leah was the one playing instructor.
Jeff was going away for the summer, but what if Leah bored him senseless and drove him permanently off? Well, I just hated the thought. We’d lucked out once: a perfect Border collie. But twice? Two perfect Border collies? Forget it. If fortune favored us, though? An Airedale. Possibly a Norwegian elkhound. A Keeshond, wonderful breed, long life span, more energetic at age ten than most breeds are at three.
And if heaven frowned? A skulker, a carpet soiler, a submissive urinator, or, worse, a fear-biter or even a fight-starter! I mean, you try to educate kids, teach them the difference between right and wrong, but when they’re caught in the throes of adolescence? When the hormones are raging and their judgment’s shot? Well, it’s not easy. In fact, it’s nerve-wracking. You can absolutely never tell what they might bring home next.
9
Rita’s old dachshund, Groucho, was a sweet, cooperative little guy who provided her with a myriad of seasonal excuses to avoid dog walking. Summer was too hot for Groucho. Winter was too cold. Spring was wet. Autumn was unpredictable. Toward the end of Groucho’s life, he actually became too feeble to enjoy an outing and thus offered Rita her first legitimate reason never to take him for more than a one-block bathroom trip.
Her present dog, Willie, however, is an energetic young Scottie who needs vigorous daily exercise. More to the point, Willie is simply not the kind of individual who would passively and cooperatively submit to being used as an excuse. After all, he’s a Scottie. He’s also himself. Double whammy. If Rita showed any sign of enjoying their walks, he’d probably fall flat on the sidewalk and refuse to budge as soon as his paws hit concrete. As it is, the more ardently Rita tries to avoid dog walking, the more intensely Willie revels in it. In fact, what Willie loves isn’t so much walking as winning. Willie: short for
On Saturday night, when Steve and I went out to dinner, I got a break from the unrelenting “Bernie Brown says...” but when we got back, Leah and her last summer’s boyfriend, Jeff Cohen, were on the sidewalk on Appleton Street, and the first words I heard when I opened the car door were, “Jeff, Bernie Brown says…”
Jeff is absolutely everything you could ask for in your cousin’s boyfriend—lovely kid, great sense of humor, blond curls like a Renaissance angel’s, Celtics fan—and, as if all that weren’t enough, he’d just put a C.D.X.— obedience title, Companion Dog Excellent—on his Border collie, Lance, brilliant breed, splendid dog. (Border collie. Not Lassie. Smaller. Black and white, tough and wiry, world’s best herding breed, top agility breed, Frisbee genius, obedience natural.)
“The underlying philosophy,” Leah was saying, “is that you don’t give the dog a chance to screw up. You structure everything so that the only thing the dog can do is what you want.”
As Leah droned on, Kimi was pulling on her leash and using her front paws to excavate a giant hole at the base of a Norway maple. Meanwhile, Lance, the object of Leah’s pontification, sat in flawless heel position at Jeff’s left side, black and white body perfectly straight, head turned to take in Jeff’s face. If a flock of sheep had turned onto Appleton Street, Kimi would have torn the leash from Leah’s hands and murdered them all. Lance, C.D.X., born with sheep on the brain, wouldn’t have let his eerie
Border collie stare wander from his master’s eyes until Jeff had released him. And Leah was the one playing instructor.
Jeff was going away for the summer, but what if Leah bored him senseless and drove him permanently off? Well, I just hated the thought. We’d lucked out once: a perfect Border collie. But twice? Two perfect Border collies? Forget it. If fortune favored us, though? An Airedale. Possibly a Norwegian elkhound. A Keeshond, wonderful breed, long life span, more energetic at age ten than most breeds are at three.
And if heaven frowned? A skulker, a carpet soiler, a submissive urinator, or, worse, a fear-biter or even a fight-starter! I mean, you try to educate kids, teach them the difference between right and wrong, but when they’re caught in the throes of adolescence? When the hormones are raging and their judgment’s shot? Well, it’s not easy. In fact, it’s nerve-wracking. You can absolutely never tell what they might bring home next.
9
Rita’s old dachshund, Groucho, was a sweet, cooperative little guy who provided her with a myriad of seasonal excuses to avoid dog walking. Summer was too hot for Groucho. Winter was too cold. Spring was wet. Autumn was unpredictable. Toward the end of Groucho’s life, he actually became too feeble to enjoy an outing and thus offered Rita her first legitimate reason never to take him for more than a one-block bathroom trip.
Her present dog, Willie, however, is an energetic young Scottie who needs vigorous daily exercise. More to the point, Willie is simply not the kind of individual who would passively and cooperatively submit to being used as an excuse. After all, he’s a Scottie. He’s also himself. Double whammy. If Rita showed any sign of enjoying their walks, he’d probably fall flat on the sidewalk and refuse to budge as soon as his paws hit concrete. As it is, the more ardently Rita tries to avoid dog walking, the more intensely Willie revels in it. In fact, what Willie loves isn’t so much walking as winning. Willie: short for
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