**I’m a full-time horse trainer who has written about horses since 2010. My dogs think it’s their turn now. Click for HORSES**
Have I wandered out of my lane? I’m not a dog trainer, just a horsewoman. But none of us are just one thing, are we? Because I work with horses doesn’t mean that I am void of feeling about growing older, or incapable of forming an opinion about the state of the world, or unable to recognize a universal language in more than one species. Horses have been the biggest passion in my life. But dogs have stood beside me every one of those days and slept with me those nights. Now it’s time for some payback. But have I finally outgrown horses? Don’t talk crazy.
Check out the horse essay archive on my website. I’ve separated the horse training essays from the dog ones, with buttons to choose. A couple of people said they were surprised I was still giving clinics. I tilted my head like a corgi looking at your cheese. I’ve been studying horses for at least 71 years. And who knows how long before I was born. Horses are still the work of my heart. Also my livelihood. Ask me about online lessons. (see photo above) And yes, recently I’ve been writing about horse training in the guise of a puppy. After 16 years, I needed a break.
I was remembering an interview with Kyra Kirkland, a Finnish dressage rider, back in the 80s. When asked how she trained the piaffe, she said, do whatever you can think of to get a movement remotely like what you want. Then reward the horse generously and ask again. I loved this because there was no failsafe answer, no perfect technique. It was an equalizer for an artist trying to wrangle a couple of ordinary horses into a dream bigger than all of us. Her answer was to be creative, and I could do that. There is no universal map. Just the animal and I feeling our way in a dark room. On a good day, it seemed freeing.
Which brings us to Jolene and the sheeps and me. Boy howdy, are we reaching around in a dark room trying to figure out herding. Some days Jolene is frightened by the sheep. Other days she chases them like a little wolf.
Because I am a horse trainer who applied the work of a dog trainer, Turid Rugaas, to calming signals in horses, I can now double back and apply it to dogs, where it all started. I know that both of Jolene’s responses, fear and bravado, are the same thing. They’re anxiety. Now we are searching around in a dark room to find where the anxiety starts, and also where joy can be found. Because this is a job Jolene was born for, and sometimes it scares her a bit. Because I’ve loved herding dogs forever, and sometimes I wonder why there are sheeps here.
It was near dusk, and we were in the pen with three of the sheeps. Jolene was following when one ewe separated out. Jolene took off too hot. Rather than returning the ewe, all three sheep bolted, and she gave chase. This is why I have a stock stick to tap the ground between the sheeps and the dog, to break that panic energy. Either my arm hesitated, or Jolene sped up, but I whacked her sharply on the head.
It is firmly stated in the rules that a stock stick may not be used either on a sheep or a dog. But I’m not worried about breaking the rules; I’m terrified that I’ve hurt my dog. And by terrified, I mean thinking we’ll need to go to the emergency room. Jolene stops dead, and I can tell it smarts.
Mister would like to remind you he never takes a week off and his adventures are no less exciting. Part of this week’s debacle is my fault. I should’ve noticed him marching back-and-forth at the base of the raised planter, stalking the tomatoes. I failed to block his attack with a bucket. The plants are a mess; he sat down while eating. Razor wire soon. Mister would like you to know that this in no way should imply he’s a vegetarian. He says, these tiny warm tomatoes remind me of the worst part of pizza.
Then there are the sheeps, the wildcards. Unpredictable every day. Now they’re settled enough to have an existential dilemma. When I open the gate to a pasture that actually has grass, they stand for long moments trying to decide if they should go out or not. Like cats can wait in the doorway for hours. I could go in the house for Jolene, but I flap my arms and hoot at them. After another five minutes of them loitering while I do calisthenics, I understand why dogs have had this job for a millennium. Humans are lousy at it.
Back with Jolene, who is a bit stunned. I say the only thing that could possibly help in this situation. I tell her she’s a good girl, wondering how I’ll explain hitting my dog with a stick at the emergency vet clinic. I breathe for a minute and then say good girl again.
Can she come? I ask. I have no idea why I speak to Jolene in third person. Consider it a literary term of endearment. She gives a full-body shake, her go-to calming signal. Then she looks me in the eye and comes to me as I crumble to the ground. There are no marks. Her eyes are clear. Jolene shakes it off, but I’m badly bruised. It scared me more than her. Now what? We should probably be done, but I’d like a positive stopping point. So I carefully click on her leash and think we’ll just follow the sheeps a few steps.
Jolene is doing her saucy little trot. She’s interested in the sheeps and they are always interested in her, so I take Jolene at her word. The leash comes off again. I say, away. The cue to circle left and pick up the sheep. Then the best herding dog in the world quietly takes a sweet arc in that direction and eases the sheep forward. Jolene is better than ever. If I didn’t feel bad enough before, I do now. And for the zillionth time, I think I don’t deserve this dog.
But of course, I do. For all the barking, peeing, and destroying expensive things. For every single day I have shown this puppy grace, why wouldn’t she return it to me now? We live in a culture of affirmative training here. It’s just that I never get over her trust in me.
The next day, Jolene is thrilled and I’m relieved to go to scent work class, where I am not armed with a stick.
Sometimes I make an awkward, blundering, stupid mistake. The sheep don’t notice, and Jolene has more patience than I deserve. To outside eyes, maybe I look like I’m an idiot. Like my ducks are definitely not in a row. It’s a figure of speech that’s lost on us. Because we have actual ducks that are in a row.
…
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