Dog Trains Man: How a Rescued Dog Taught Its Owner New Tricks

I’ve heard tell that dog owners (or “guardians” as some prefer) look like their dogs. I did not realize with how much haste that transpires.

We have been considering adopting a dog for a few years. As with any important project, we began by identifying what we wanted. One, he must be a rescue dog. Two, she must not be bothered by our two cats (of course how they respond to the dog will be their decision). Three, we wanted a smaller dog that had some personality but was not hyper. Those were the “must haves,” the remainder were “would likes.” We surfed websites, monitored our newspaper, and checked shelters and animal control with regularity.
Welcome “Jack.” He’s a five-year old mini-Schnauzer with a persuasive, mostly subdued personality who loves our backyard, follows me like a shadow, is housebroken (yay!), and even understands some commands, allowing me the option to train him even more; something I wanted. While I write, he has already taken to lying in his bed, apparently content to watch me type. (I guess he’s hard-pressed for entertainment.)



As for similarity — although I did not think of it when I picked him up; he already resembles me (or I do him). His hair, although dark of base, is basically “silver,” slightly disheveled, and he sports a gray goatee in need of a shave. More striking is that he is also into yoga; I’ve seen him doing “downward facing dog” repeatedly. (Insert rim shot here…)

The one attribute of which I am NOT fond is that, although he slept through night one without incident, he is evidently an early riser, quite contrary to myself. A perk of self-employment with one’s home as the office, is the ability to grab a few extra winks each morning, since my commute consists of four stairs. Alas, I fear those days have passed, as Jack is part rooster, prone to rise with the sun (especially ill-fated since this is summer and first light is unfortunately early).

Therefore, today, I awoke far earlier than was my pattern. My wife, snickering wickedly, commented, “Looks like your days of staying up late are over.”

Growling (yet another similarity with a dog), I dragged my carcass from my bed to begin this new, unexpected routine. Change had once again scampered into my life, this time in the form of a twenty-pound canine that could not wait to take a walk. “I must teach him the command, ‘sleep,’” I wearily lamented as I secured him in his harness.

But that’s the way it is, isn’t it? We make our plans and move forth into the yet to come. We believe we’re in control — but it’s illusion. Life steers; we are passengers. Whether changing how we eat, seeking mental health, developing relationships, financial planning, or simply adopting a furry friend, the results of our actions cannot always be predicted nor controlled.

So, once again, I am fine-tuning to the unexpected, a progression without end, and one in which we all engage non-stop. Sometimes, the adjustments are painful; other times, thank God, they are minor. Yet it is unavoidable.

I detest getting up early; it fouls my mood.

But, conversely, I can be buoyed by the outpouring of warmth from this newfound community of “dog people,” which has already been as heartwarming and loving as the joy elicited by Jack when I reach for his leash and we head out into the (too early) morning. It’s my choice.

Now, which one of us is really training the other?

About the author: Scott “Q” Marcus is a professional speaker and the CDO of www.ThisTimeIMeanIt.com, a website for people and organizations who are frustrated with making promises and are ready to make a change. Sign up for his free newsletter at the site or friend him at facebook.com/thistimeimeanit. He is also available for coaching and speaking engagements at 707.442.6243 or scottq@scottqmarcus.com.

Embracing the Here and Meow

Somebody said, "Dogs have masters, cats have staff."

Being a staff member for two cats, I will testify to the veracity of the statement. Our 12-year-old cat, K.C. (um, short for "kitty cat"), has abruptly made a significant behavioral switch, leaving me in the position of having to adjust to this alteration - as I seem powerless in my attempts to convince her to revert to old behaviors. It appears that the bedroom where she has spent many years sleeping, purring - and shedding - is no longer acceptable to wile away the hours. Rather, she has commandeered our bathroom.

In addition to the fact that she has no need for such facilities, I find it puzzling, as tile and porcelain seem to be rather uncomfortable furnishings (especially compared with the warmth and comfort of a carpeted bedroom).

Yet, undeterred by my urgings to return to a softer habitat, she has taken over, napping in the tub or sleeping on the toilet lid. At first I was unnerved in the wee, dark, quiet hours of the night should I happen to sleepishly stagger into the bathroom and be greeted unexpectedly by a low, rumbling, noisy purr. Now, I have learned to simply lift her from the toilet seat, place her on the edge of the tub, take care of business, return her to the lid, pat her goodnight, and totter unsteadily back to bed. Shaving has become virtually impossible as she jumps onto the vanity and sticks her face in mine. We have developed a dance: I place her on the floor, shave as quickly as possible before she leaps back, replace her on floor, shave, floor, shave, repeat as necessary.

As with most change, I do eventually adjust.

This is just one aspect of life beyond my control. Should they all be as benign as modifying my morning constitutional to accommodate a furry, affectionate feline, life would be delightful. Yet, that is not so. Often, change crashes in, an out-of-control 18-wheeler through a tent, crushing and crunching everything in its wake; proof of the observation, "Life is what happens while we make other plans."

The question is not, "Will life change?" Instead, it is "How will I adjust to its changes?" Rather than dig in my heels to be dragged screamingly into the dark places, I can find some peace in accepting that the only constant is change. Lamenting a changing diet or the aging of my body does nothing more than tear down my attitude, depleting what I joy I could have.

Change is in all things: the blooming of spring flowers, the laugher of an infant, even the wrinkles around my eyes. It is neither "bad" nor "good," it merely "is."

Embrace it. Adjust to it. And, oh yes, take some time to purr.