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What can we learn from our animal friends? Meet Danny, the Irish Setter
All over the world, everywhere, humans and animals form great bonds that give them both another kind of gift of life. This is one of the reasons why Joan Chittister wrote the book, Two Dogs and a Parrot. For World Animal Day we're sharing an extract from the book where we meet Danny, the unruly Irish Setter.
Danny grew from a stringy-looking puppy with a long, bare tail into a sleek red silhouette of iconic proportions and noble beauty. I thought of all the great animal statues I’d seen—Man o’ War, Lassie, Rin Tin Tin—and basked in the dignity of it all. There they were, champions all, and my dog, as well, a worthy carrier of his breed.
I washed him and groomed him, brushed his silken hair and trimmed his ears. His very stance, his gleaming red coat demanded it. But most of all, I wanted a well-trained dog, good in the neighborhood, stately guardian of the house, calm with callers, playful with children. Ah, yes, best of breed. The kind that returned the stick you threw and walked down Main Street with you, nose next to the knee, never an inch of strain on the leash. I had seen far too many dogs walking their owners. I was an owner who wanted to walk a dog. In which case, my first step would have to be some kind of obedience school for dogs. The kind of school that trains service dogs and endurance dogs and military dogs and guard dogs. Dogs with character.
It didn’t take long to find a group in town who met every week with the same ideals as my own and an experienced dog trainer who knew how to make it all happen. When I think back now, however, I realize that I had failed to notice something that was perhaps equally important. All the other dogs in the group, with the exception of two—the schnauzer and my Irish setter—were German shepherds. Had I processed that information consciously, I may have figured out sooner that there was a message in that.
Every day I went over to the riverside parking lot to put Danny through the paces: Sit, Heel, Down, Come, Stay. Sit, Heel, Down, Come, Stay.
It wasn’t that Danny didn’t get the drill. It was just that Danny didn’t like the drill. He seemed glad enough to show me how quick he was at catching on. But he apparently didn’t like the thought of having to repeat the process over and over again. The look on his face told it all: he frowned at me as if to say, “I did it—what else do you want?” In fact, I began to realize, the more often I required him to perform a command, the slower, the sloppier, the less snap there was to the routine. He was actually getting worse rather than better as the training time went by.
At the end of the course, dogs—OK, owners—got ribbons and statues and certificates that memorialized how trained they had become. Not mine. Danny got a little Grecian figurine marked “Most Lovable.” And that was a clear message, too.
In fact, we did the obedience school caper a total of three times. But, as the Irish say, “There was not much between them.” In every obedience training course, he did his trick once, bowed to the audience, and then opened his big red mouth, slid down on his haunches and yawned. This was not progress.
On the other hand, he did know the program. He understood the commands. He wasn’t a slow learner. What he needed, I decided, was some genuine competition, a reason to perform, the feeling of achievement, the real thing. Not just one more night of walking in a training circle with dogs he didn’t even know. I decided to take him to a dog show.
It was a gorgeous day. There were dogs and people everywhere. Families opened picnic baskets, sat on blankets and camp chairs around the ring, and watched dog after dog prance in and out of their formations.
When it was our turn, Danny “heeled” with the kind of brisk steps that got me thinking of animal statues again. He “came” on a trot. He “sat” on command. He “downed” to the ground with a heave. All of a sudden, I knew this was real, authentic, genuine. We were actually competing. Inching our way up the rungs of doggy greatness. Just a few more routines and we, too, would taste the glory of it all.
And then it came time to “stay.”
To “stay,” you are to put the dog in a “sit” command, turn your back to him, and walk away a good thirty paces or so before you turn and face your dog again. It is a three-minute exercise.
How long is a three-minute exercise for a dog? Well, put yourself in the dog’s place.
Think of it this way: Someone has told you to stand on one foot for three minutes for no good reason at all. Or you are told to stretch and hold your arms out at shoulder height until you’re allowed to put them down. Or someone wants you to sit in the snow or the sun or the rain until told to return to your seat, though whenever that might be, no one is entirely clear.
In this case, I gave the “stay” command with an air of authority, just the way the dog trainer had taught us. The trick was to plant the dog without hesitation, to make it clear to the dog that you knew what you were doing, and that you also knew what he was supposed to do. I walked away from him with a firm step and a confident air.
Danny looked at me and started to pant a bit and then to shift from haunch to haunch. I held my breath and pinned him with a stare. At the second minute, Danny began to look from side to side around the ring where babies squealed, “Doggy! Doggy!” all the while waving hot dogs in the air. At two and a half minutes, a big white standard poodle sashayed by, her nose up, tail wagging. Danny’s ears went up, his nose went down, and he took off galloping across the ring and over the rope in hot pursuit. “Lady! Lady!” the judge yelled at me, “control your dog!”
The stories and reflections in this lovely book will speak to us whether we have an animal companion, long to have a pet, love someone who does, or simply cherish animals and nature.
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