Building Confidence: Scentwork With Jolene, Acknowledgment for Mister

I don’t recognize this young dog of mine. She doesn’t care, except that I’m such an old fart. Here’s the catch-up: Two weeks ago, Jolene and I went to her first scentwork class. She listened to the instructor. The scent went into a steel bowl set in the middle of a space. She found it, I cheered and gave her a treat. Might be part visual, seeing the bowl, but the scent was all over it. It’s a start.

Two days later, it was the emergency room for me. Without complaint, she sacrificed ten days of her puppyhood to nurse me. I got all touchy-feely that we’d walked each other through emergency room drama, thinking it was as good as a blood oath. Mister will tell you she lacks the gravitas, but not me. I’m giddy and call it a bond for life. And we missed the second week of scent class. And we didn’t practice. 

Today, I drove us to class. First off-property trip in almost two weeks. When I pulled up in front of the facility, Jolene practically popped out the windshield of the truck. I unclicked her seatbelt before she hung herself, and she nearly disemboweled me to get to the door, which I couldn’t open because she’s got my arms pinned. Jolene recognizes the outside of the building that she’s been to exactly once. So, it’s going to be like this. 

She is no longer capable of walking on a leash because of my aforementioned fartitude. She reels and squeals her way to the instructor to suck up. With only half of one ear currently working, I can’t tell who’s talking, making me ruin her grand entrance with a fartiness that embarrassed her. The class gets instructions. This week, we start with the bowl. Then the scent goes into a box. Then the box goes behind a screen, out of sight.

Jolene does not want to wait her turn. I do not want to quell her enthusiasm. The other pup in the class is getting in trouble for the same behavior. I’m asking for patience (fat chance) by playing a touch game. It’s not the game she wants, but I won’t listen. She yips and tosses her nose over her shoulder toward the scent area, like a teenage girl flipping her hair. I sink into a fartlicious stare-down. I still have a stinky whiff of pride.

Naturally, we are last to go. We pause barely long enough for me to say, find it! And I had better be moving before the words end. The bowl. Simple decision. The box, a few seconds longer, but her nose was on the ground. Not even looking for a visual. She was working. Next, two boxes, one empty. She appreciated the trick question and went to work. Found. This is the part I don’t recognize. Who is this bloodhound? Between each go, we wait for the other dogs, who are horrible not to let her do all the boxes. Waiting is the hard part. Then, the box behind the screen. Jolene’s pointy little nose traced the edge of the screen, around the end and to the box. Invisible box, all scent. She wants to do it again. We go sit down. 

The instructor uses the word ‘pay’, the treat for finding the thing. And so Jolene gets paid, but she takes it like an afterthought. I think praise always works better than food. But then, you have to praise as if you’re a three-day-old piece of salty ham. Not just anyone can do it.

Class ends, and still in a bit of shock, I have to carry her to the truck. She has been a wink away from escaping her collar, so I’ll use a harness/straightjacket next week. Jolene is asleep before we are out of the parking lot. Just like last time. 

Finally, the horse lesson in this dog lesson. Animals learn through experience, but it’s in the time after, as they process, that the deep learning happens. Think of it as learning in hindsight. Jolene forgot nothing over the two weeks away. If anything, she progressed. She’s smart, but this is all instinct. We don’t train so much as praise her efforts. Drilling kills the fun. When they get it right, let them know, and quit. The less I ask, the more she gives. Just like horses.

Granted, my little javelina isn’t ready to sit through a church service. But this is like a self-love seminar. Work with their nature, engaging curiosity rather than micromanaging them into shutting down. Some dogs are stoic and some are more expressive. Just like horses. We need to celebrate the animal’s enthusiasm and encourage those who are cautious, without forcing an answer or correcting. No more night-of-the-living-dead zombie horses or cringing, squinty-eyed dogs. Jolene is a tough girl but still just a pup learning something more important than scented q-tips. The best help we can offer is to control ourselves. Trust their intelligence. Let them find their confidence. And try very hard not to be any fartier than we already are.

Meanwhile, Mister thinks I got a lot of recent attention for a problem that he and Jolene clearly had under control. He needs a moment and climbs into my lap, dropping limp and heavy. He doesn’t need to tell me the problem. I know. It’s always cats. Mister can’t abide them. They make him nervous. Once at a Tennessee RV camp, somebody walked a hairless cat by on a leash just feet away from us. He looked like he’d eaten Brussels sprouts and didn’t utter a burp till the next day.

A brief history of cats: I’ve actually had almost equal numbers of cats and dogs. When I first moved to the farm, my Grandfather Horse brought his cat, who napped on his back and shared his lunch. One barn cat converted to a house cat and slept on top of one dog for the next decade. But I lost four cats in rapid succession. I brought the cats in at night but had daytime losses. Between feral tomcats, coyotes, hawks, and cars, the farm was like Hell’s Kitchen on the Prairie. Now the cats live inside.

Mister firmly pretends the house cat is invisible. But today he’s climbed up on my lap to commiserate about a wicked sand-colored tomcat. Moriarty to his Sherlock. As I have said, Mister is a conservative dog, old-fashioned in ways that are both expected and traditional. He cares about the state of the world, and that means cats. He sees himself as a protector, a sultry Pedro Pascal sort, but I’m reminded of Wilford Brimley.

I’m a traitor. I feed the intruder in exchange for some rodent control in the barn. Worst, I made a bed in the tack room for this tomcat who toys with Mister’s emotions. Mister runs the fence, frantically yee-howling at the cat, who can see Mister is behind a fence. The tom sits in plain view and ignores the orders to leave. He uses open ground to relieve himself. Such an insult cannot go unanswered. Cats are anarchists. 

Now the sunset comes early. Pikes Peak shoulders its first snow. Flies are vicious, knowing they will die soon. And the mice are moving into the house for the winter. Mister knows there is a mystical link between mice and cats, so he hunts the mice. Meaning he spends hours staring at a shelf where the mice mock him. There is no rest.

Mister does not want me to solve his problems. He believes in loyalty and public service. Not fewer feelings, not less sensitive. He just doesn’t blab everything before considering his options. He doesn’t like public displays of affection. But sometimes, he needs some extra quiet lap time. Of course, I drop everything and praise his work. After all, isn’t acknowledgment all any of us want?

Jolene has bravado. She drives the truck, honks, and yells to hurry or get left. Mister is stoic, wearing his heart on his sleeve. I take him seriously because he is earnestly doing his best. And I am the malodorous chameleon. I blend to the color each needs. In human terms, I am their dog.

[Part 19. Read all the episodes of Jolene’s Story here.]

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