Discipline? To whomever suggested the topic (I’m bad with names), thanks for nothing. What’s there to say? Ever watched a mama-bitch educate her pups? Brutal. (Is it this that makes bitch a pejorative? Is bitch a slur in all languages or just English? Distracting, language, simpler without.)
On this topic, dog-to-human, I could bark a book. That’s what humans do: complicate: begin with the obvious – what any momma knows without tuition – and end up with a university discipline, professors, academic journals, tenure decisions, backbiting politics, the whole nine yards. Behaviorism, enticement versus entitlement, spare the rod and spoil the pup, carrot or stick, jeez, makes my head spin (and I’m pretty smart, he understates)… Only human moms need books to tell them how.
This bewilderment about rearing extends to dogs. Not to cats so much, who sensibly resist instruction or to any of the creatures with whom humans’ relation is carnivorous. Neither to amphibians, whom God created on the ninth day, while nursing a hangover. To parrots and monkeys maybe, but who keeps them anymore? (Or ferrets – what’s a ferret anyway – half-brother to the invisible vole?)
Dogs get the full benefit of humans’ cerebration about education. Jane and Carll even took me to school -- twice! Not that I minded. School’s all-snacks-no-whacks guidance suited me. One day I may describe my schooling if it’s raining “cats and dogs”. (Writing is not my priority, unlike poor Carll.)
Jane and Carll are earnest students, Jane especially, who takes notes. Carll, though, “hates being told what to do” (his phrase), which I think he’s disclosed. (While an occasional missive contributor, I’m not a regular reader. Who has time?) They’ve both been convinced by – or succumbed to – the current vogue in dog-training, which derives, if I understand it, from a dude ominously named Skinner. Professor Skinner persuaded creatures to behave (not my verb) by enticing with treats. Love, under his rule, became provisional: comply, you get pampered, innovate and to hell with you.
Theoretically galling, in practice this approach is the cat’s pajamas. (Odd phrase, no?) Transforms me into a trollop (not the novelist), forever wheedling, cocking my little head, looking cute, which makes Jane and Carll beam. I kind of like being cuter than all get-out, truth be told – sates my (not inconsiderable) vanity. I might even act this way without treats, who knows?
The Skinner system, though, has its flaws. Two instances:
Being treated for ceasing unwelcome behavior makes such behavior more tempting. One surefire way to snag Jane-and-Carll’s interest is to gnaw garments they prize. (Are shoes a “garment”? Well, them too.) Slippers, shoes, underwear, socks – oh, socks! – the more odorous the happier. It’s less the nutrients we seek from such chewables than the attention. (Munching Carll’s journals prompts an equivalent response.)
Current dog discipline dictates, in all instances of impropriety, snacks not whacks. “Leave it,” Jane urges me with her mellifluous gentleness. (She really is a sweetheart.) After a heart-melting show of resistance, I acquiesce, for which I receive a delectable morsel, which naturally encourages me to repeat my predation.
Feigning insincerity when you’re pissed off is insincere and insincerity is for the birds. Case in point. Carll has these yummy handmade leather boots, which his kids gave him, which he keeps by the door for our walks. He loves them. He suspects they cost a pretty penny but their provenance is what counts. A gift from one’s kids, Carll sighs, is a gift times ten. Naturally, I snatch and gnaw them, competitive for his affection. Carll entreats, treats; then entreats without treating; then smacks so it stings. He’s right.