Unleashing
cooperative spirit
can take timeWe got a postcard from the veterinary clinic in Kaneohe reminding us that our Shar-pei Bingo was due for his annual physical exam. Nice of them, except that they apparently forgot that they banished Bingo from the place after he terrorized the staff when we last boarded him there.
When I went to pick him up that day, I was greeted by the grim-faced manager. "Your dog tried to attack the staff every time they approached him," she scolded. "It's obvious Bingo isn't happy here. Maybe he shouldn't come back."
Bingo tried to look contrite by hanging his head and shuffling his feet. But his wagging tail gave away that he wasn't exactly devastated by his expulsion.
I couldn't blame him. Nothing good ever happened to him there. It's where he had surgery to repair his ever-infected ears. They basically drilled new ears through his head. It's where the vets persuaded me that neutering was good for him. Even a routine visit meant unpleasant poking, prodding and needles in the rump.
But the postcard left me feeling guilty that I didn't have enough control of my dog to take him out to have his basic medical needs attended to.
He used to be well-trained. I'd take him out for walks and he'd obey me always. A couple of years ago, though, my multiple sclerosis put me in a wheelchair and the walks stopped. Inside the house he does what I tell him, knowing I can still hunt him down to enforce my will. Outside, he knows I couldn't catch him in a million years and feels free to run wild.
When some friends gave me an electric scooter that their family no longer needed, I thought I'd use it to resume the walks and reassert command. It was either that or face the prospect of giving him up.
I tied Bingo to a long leash and took him out on the street for some drills. The idea was that when he strayed, I'd reverse direction and he'd get a good yank on the neck. My training tape promised he'd soon get tired of that and start paying close attention to me. From there, I could easily train him to heel to the scooter.
I had barely started when he had the situation sized up. He wrapped his leash around a mailbox pole to bring my scooter to a sudden halt, then used the leverage to flip the scooter over and send me flying into the street.
After darn near killing me, Bingo changed roles and became my protector, barking ferociously at neighbors who came to offer help. He set up a 15-foot perimeter around me that nobody could enter. I didn't know if he was protecting me as his master or as his new chew toy.
I finally got him tied to the scooter, pulled myself up and retreated to the garage in shame. But I was determined to get this done and we were back at it the next day.
It again ended quickly after he got his leash tangled in the scooter's wheels. But this time the humiliation was on him. The turning wheels reeled him in and he had to make the trip back to the garage with his nose locked six inches from the rear axle.
As he stood still to let me untangle him, I thought the value of cooperation might be sinking in. We'll see.
David Shapiro is managing editor of the Star-Bulletin.
He can be reached by e-mail at editor@starbulletin.com.
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