REMEMBERING GORDY

Across 23 years in the sport of dog obedience I have made many new friends. Among those who read this, a small but select group -- my kind of people -- will nod their affirmation when I say that many of the most treasured of those friends are dogs. None more treasured than Gordy. Gordy was a big, sweet, goofy golden retriever. If I were to write here that Gordy had personality, I'd probably choke on it. The dog was a full-blown character. He owned Beverly Lewnau and the hearts of so many of the rest of us. Bev and I met more than two decades ago, students in a Novice class at Debby Boehm's Precision Canine. Both of us were trying to figure it out with our young goldens: Bev's Bunny and my Honeybear. Years passed. Bev and Gordy became my students in competition obedience. Lessons took place in Moon valley Park. Gordy would greet me by buzzing me -- not jumping on me, not grabbing my wrist, not presenting himself to be petted . . . buzzing me. Bev carried some of the accoutrements of obedience instruction in a cloth bag. Which, in the absence of a table, she'd place on the ground. Each lesson, without fail, Gordy's first order of business was to extract a glove from the bag and run around shaking it . . . all the while proudly showing it to me, just out of my reach. Those summer evenings were what competition obedience training should be. Fun. Sublime. Gordy learned easily . . . because he was having a blast. But if competition obedience had been jazz, he would have attained the stature of Miles Davis, Dave Brubeck, Ella Fitzgerald. Gordy loved to improvise. I remember the day he was sailing through an Open run until he retrieved the dumbbell, returned over the high jump, quickly took it behind Bev and played with it there. Gordy tended to start slowly in the ring. So we devised a little strategy to psych him up as they entered the ring, a few minutes of Bev-deprivation. I'd hold Gordy out of sight, some distance from the ring, behind a tent or a van. I'd deliver him to Bev the very instant the judge was calling their number. One day Bev and Debby Boehm were standing just outside the ring, awaiting our just-in-time arrival, when they noticed a large dog romping through the show. "That looks like Gordy," Debby said. Indeed. And there I came, some distance behind with an empty collar and leash in my hand. Make fun if you must but as I recall Gordy opened with one of his most upbeat heeling performances that morning. Gordy was just OK at obedience, but he sure had fun. He qualified. He got his titles. Bev and Gordy also did agility . . . and print ads . . . and TV commercials. But it was in the conformation ring where Gordy sparkled. In a breed where the rings are populated by dozens upon dozens of dogs and dominated by professional handlers, Bev showed Gordy to his championship and then some -- I mean big-time "then some." In recent years, at shows with 80,100 or more golden entries, Bev would study the catalog, and consistently there was no golden with more dog sports titles than Gordy. Several years ago, on a Sunday morning after our little training group had done our ring run-throughs, Bev startled me with a request. If something happened to her, would I take Gordy? Oh wow! That's a toughie. I loved Gordy; He'd be a wonderful addition to our little pack. But for that to happen Bev would have to die. That's heavy stuff. Barbara and I talked it over. "No," was not an option. Which is how we became godparents. A little over two years ago, Gordy was diagnosed with laryngeal paralysis. I won't detail it here; you can look it it up. But it's a no-win condition. Do nothing and the dog probably dies. Choose throat surgery and you end up with a bunch of nasty sequelae. Eventually Bev chose surgery. Gordy lingered at death's door for months. Frankly, those of us who were close to the situation quietly wrote Gordy off. But then things turned and Gordy became . . . well, he became pretty much Gordy again. One Saturday morning I was in Paradise Valley Park awaiting a student when across the park, at least 100 yards away, Bev got out of her van with her three goldens. There was sure nothing wrong with Gordy's eyes. He saw me -- at that distance! Bev took the leash off and he came running -- no, hopping -- all the was across that field, tail going furiously. That was one fine weekend. The word got around and everyone was saying, "Gordys back! Gordy's back!" Gordy's 13th birthday on October 18, 2012 -- a birthday few of us thought he'd ever see -- was way beyond special. Barbara wrapped a package with pretty paper and ribbon. I took it over there that evening. While the other dogs crowded around, Bev helped Gordy open his package. A glove! A well-worn, dirty glove. Gordy grabbed it out of the box and tore out the back door to settle down in the backyard. No way anyone else was getting near his glove. He kept it to himself the rest of the evening. Bev told me that when he woke up the next morning, magically, the glove was snuggled at his side. Bev had to say goodbye to her goofy, wonderful big guy a couple of weeks ago. Recently she said, "I really love my other dogs (Broker and Louie) but now the house seems so empty." Yeah. Willard

BRINGING UP PRESTO! We're Baaack!

It's been 115 days since my last post to this blog. Blame it on the computer. "Tecnical problems beyond my control." (Like broken sits.) The tiniest things can wreak the most havoc. You know that little vertical line that flashes where you're going to begin to type? (It must have a name, but I haven't the foggiest.) That little line refused to appear. We tried everything, to no avail. A couple of friends who know lots more about computers than I do tried. Zilch. The hills were alive with the sound of cusswords. * * * When the blog went on the fritz, at first I ho-hummed it. Probably nobody cared, anyhow. As you grind out something like this, you begin to wonder. Is there anyone out there? Or is it like the tree falling in the forest and nobody hears it? But as time passed I began to receive emails. For instance, late last week I heard from Shannon Rodgers Daspit in Des Moines, Iowa. She closed with ". . . please keep blogging, sharing, writing . . . it inspires and helps more than you'll ever know." Wow! That'll put wind beneath your wings. A day later "Aussie girl" posted a comment beneath the item I had shared on August 15,115 days ago. In part she said, "Discovered this blog recently and am waiting for more posts." Thank you Aussie girl, whoever and wherever you are. Late last January, on a day when you could float a catamaran in the ring (Yeah, here in the desert.) a prominent judge told me, "I have a puppy and I'm following your blog and using the same methods you're using with Presto!" Gee, I wonder how they're doing? So there is life out there in cyberspace. And the comments are much appreciated. OK, here we go again. * * * When last we connected here in this blogosphere, Presto! was 15 months old and I was thanking my lucky stars, and his, that he had turned on a dime and come when I called him off of a huge, intact male pit bull. At that point, his light bulb really hadn't come on. Oh, I was doing all the right things and Presto! was responding, sort of by rote. But I've found that there comes a point, actually an identifiable day, when suddenly the dog gets it. I could take you back a few weeks and tell you the precise day when that happened. Bingo! Suddenly Presto! had learned how to learn. And the tenor of our practice sessions changed dramatically. The most exciting feature of our training sessions now is the pure joy that 19-month-old Presto! exudes as he works with me. Example: scent articles. Presto! goes ripping out to the pile as fast as he can run. And as he goes, he gives a sharp growl. He attacks the pile, working at warp speed, comes back and presents the article by jumping on my chest. Many years ago my first border collie, Bebop, was also a lightning fast worker at the pile (accurate, too; in his career he got 340 correct articles in a row). Once we were showing in San Bernardino, California. There was a woman at ringside representing the Canadian Kennel Club. She told us she was observing American obedience as part of a study to possibly amend the Canadian regulations. The lady was standing with Barbara as Bebop and I did our thing in the Utility B ring. Later Barbara told me the woman shook her head and said, "I've never seen a dog work the pile that fast." Well, Presto! makes Bebop look like a tortoise. I love that enthuisiasm, it portends wonderful things for the future. But there's fast and then there's ridiculous. Lately I've been putting a flexi on Presto! as we practice scent articles. I think too much haste might make for waste. Better to slow him down a bit. But the unbridled joy with which he tackles everything we do is wonderful. Willard

BRINGING UP PRESTO! Great Moments In Dog Obedience Training

Presto! is just over 15 months.  His training is coming along well, but there's nothing where I can look you in the eye and say, "That's solid!"

Last Sunday we were training in Cactus Park.  Presto! and I were about 30 feet from the sidewalk, practicing fronts.  I had my back to the sidewalk.  All of a sudden my little guy took off like a shot, right past me.  I turned and oh my God!  There was a guy with a huge, intact male pit bull on a leash.  I said, PRESTO! COME!  He spun and came directly back to me.  Whew!

Alice Blazer was training with us.  She said, "When Presto! saw that was a pit bull his entire life flashed before him.  That's why he came back."

Willard

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

Police in Florida have arrested a linebacker from Florida State University.  The charge?  Barking at a police dog.

Willard

BRINGING UP PRESTO! Herding Dog?

Our neighborhood is crawling with rabbits.  Maybe hopping is a better word.  Ours are not the big jackrabbits you might associate with the Southwest.  They're the familiar cottontail bunnies I grew up with in Cincinnati.

They're everywhere around here, and our backyard is one of their favorite spots.  That's because it's mostly grass.  Here in Phoenix the (mountain) lion's share of yards are some kind of crushed rock with a smattering of drought-resistant plants. Cacti prevail.

So the bunnies think our well-watered grass is swell.  Actually, there's an exchange transaction going on here. The bunnies love basking in our backyard and the dogs love eating what they leave behind.  They go after it like it's a gustatory delicacy.  Which I guess is OK.  My vet tells me that rabbit poop is generally harmless; the parasites that come with it don't seem to bother dogs.

It's July here in the Sonoran Desert and the high temperatures have been ranging between 107 and 119.  Right now as I look out the window I see two bunnies.  One is stretched out full-length in the cool grass, hind legs stretched all the way back.  A flat bunny.  The other has dug himself a shallow bowl under a rose bush and he's luxuriating there.

ENTER PRESTO!

He emerges from the back door.  Sees the bunnies.  They see him.  Nobody moves.  Presto! freezes.  High drama.  From the tip of his nose to the tip of his tail (what there is of it, given that as a puppy he chewed the white hair at the end unmercifully) his top line is low and flat.

His left front leg elevates, pointer-like.  Which is where it stays, suspended for a good 30 seconds.  Then, slowly, he lowers it.  Now the back right leg comes up.  It too stays suspended.  Meanwhile the rabbits remain frozen in place.

I've seen Presto!'s dramatic act go on for five minutes.  The bunnies fixed with his steely gaze.  Each of his paws taking its turn, raised, suspended, then lowered.  Across those long, theatrically charged minutes Presto!'s forward progress may approach six inches.  Or not.

One night a rabbit was stock still no more than 10 feet in front of my little guy as Presto! went through his stalking act.  The light was limited and my view of the bunny was partially obscured by a tall bush.  Cautiously I worked my way around to the side for a better view.  Only to discover that the bunny had his back turned to Presto!  The ultimate put-down!

Cheddar, my 11-year-old golden, occasionally gives the bunnies a half-hearted chase.  And Bravo!, my other border collie, can give them a run for their money.

One day I heard two of the rabbits talking.  One said, "Don't worry about the one in the red collar (Presto!), he's harmless."

Do we have herding instinct being manifested here?

The truth is the bunnies keep Presto! around for comic relief.

Willard

REQUEST FOR HELP

Across the past several years I have posted to this blog 125 times, covering a variety of competition obedience-related items.  I hope at least some of those posts have been helpful.  Now I'm seeking your help.

Here in Phoenix we have a unique leash law -- constructed, by the way, with help of and strong endorsement of the AKC.  The AKC has cited it as a model ordinance for other cities to follow. (Section 8-14 of the Phoenix City Code).  I posted a four-part series to this blog explaining the law and the process by which it came to be.  It began on September 28, 2011 and concluded October 7, 2011.  It's available here in the archives.  Basically it allows anyone who can prove they're LEGITIMATELY training for an authentic dog sport to train in a Phoenix city park without fear of being cited.

Recently the Phoenix police, responding to complaints about off-leash dogs (not with legitimate trainers) running amuck in city parks in violation of the law, did a sweep and cited nearly 100 scofflaws.  That sweep has backfired.

A group (headed by a few who were ticketed) has started a "grassroots" movement to try to get a law passed that would allow designated off-leash hours in city parks.  All dogs would be allowed to run off-leash, unfenced, during designated hours.  The group mentions other areas where such laws are in force.  One is New York City where from opening to 9a.m. and again from 9p.m. to closing, dogs may run unfenced and unfettered in city parks.  The local group has mentioned Portland, Oregon and Boise, Iowa as other areas which have such laws.  There may be others.

Now then, I can just imagine trying to train for competition in an area where such a circus is going on. (By the way, here in Phoenix where today the temperature will crest near 120 degrees, the early morning hours are THE time to train.  I was in a city park before 6 o'clock this morning.)

So I'm wondering if some who are reading this live in an area where such a dogs-off-leash law is in effect?  And if so, what are your experiences trying to train in such an environment?

We are about to try to put together effective opposition to what seems to be gaining traction here. Your detailed information about what's happening in your area in the face of such a situation would be helpful.  I know some find it very difficult to use the comments section of this blog, so I would welcome your detailed information either by email otchhb@cox.net  or by phone, 602-942-6069.  If I'm not right there, please leave a message and a phone number and I'll call you back.

I know trouble when I smell it, and I smell it now.  Your help would be appreciated by the entire dog sports community here in Arizona.

Willard

BRINGING UP PRESTO! Nik Wallenda and Competition Obedience

Just before 6:30 last night, as a helicopter carried Nik Wallenda to the starting point for his epic walk across the Little Colorado River Gorge, his wife, Erendira, told a Discovery Channel interviewer, "I'm so inspired by him, and I just hope that whoever watches him will also be inspired."

Well, he got me.  His tightrope walk could not have come at a better time for me.  His feat was the consummate inspiration; it cut to the very core of what I'm trying to achieve.

No, I'm not setting out to be a highwire walker.  I'm striving to attain what I call Dead Red Focus during training and in the ring.

Right before Wallenda got his 30-foot balance pole in place and mounted the wire, he said, "When I get out there, there's only the wire and me -- nothing else exists."  Exactly.  And I'm seeking that same perfect locked-in state.  In the ring -- as well as in practice -- there's only my dog and me.  Nothing can distract me.  That's the goal.

Then, for 23 gripping minutes, I watched him walk (1,500 feet above the rocks below, no harness, no net) focused on . . . well, focused on not falling to his death.  There is no greater focus, no greater mental discipline than what the world witnessed last night.

I may never attain that degree of focus with Presto!  But it's nothing more than a challenging test of will.  And I plan to get a cerebral hernia trying.

Willard