Like dieting, sobriety, employment, shaving and pretending to be a grown-up, dog training requires consistency
They are in the house. What are they doing in the house? They should be in the savannah biting things, getting blood on their whiskers and scratching at ant heaps. But here they are, wearing Rogz necklaces and farting out pasta dinners.
I started training the dogs, under the guidance of an animal behaviourist, after (a) Lily mauled a genteel Labrador in the park; (b) Lily mauled a friend’s genteel Labrador in the car; (c) Lily nearly mauled my two-year-old niece; (c) Lily and Joey removed my running gear off the washing line and turned it into a colander; and (d) my husband started watching too many bike shows. The behaviourist admitted – after I’d paid her – there was nothing she could do about the bike shows.
On the first day, she took me to a dark place. I wailed and curled up in the pine needles. Tokai Forest will forever haunt me. She made me hide behind trees and crawl through herds of Jack Russells. I daubed ostrich kidneys on my cheeks and blew that whistle like a drill sergeant. She forced me to wear a moonbag and arm myself with leads and spray bottles decorated with butterflies. All the while, Joey and Lily frolicked like deaf Victorians in the woods. I found Joey two hours later on someone’s patio.
Like dieting, sobriety, shaving, employment and pretending to be a grown-up, training dogs requires consistency. Good behaviour must always be rewarded; bad behaviour must always be diverted. This means one has to be constantly vigilant and accessorised with treats. It can get confusing. At the train station the other day, I dug in my jacket pocket and handed the ticket inspector half a dried chicken giblet. And when a taxi was bearing down on me in Lansdowne Road, I instinctively reached for my whistle and blew it like Charles Mingus.
Things, however, are looking up. Lily now comes when I blow the whistle (so does half the hockey team which trains on a neighbouring field, but we’re working that out). She now mauls only tennis balls and Yorkshire terriers, which is not great as tennis balls are expensive. Joey has stopped harassing the vagrants for their fingers and sex toys, and the only thing he rips apart is my heart when he shudders through dreams in his sleep.
I have also shown B a Moir’s pudding box. The instructions are easy: put the E numbers into a bowl, add milk, beat the pssssshhht out of it and chill.
He’s capable of so much when threatened with a whistle and a giblet.