Behaving Badly. Isabel Wolff

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      Caroline laughed. ‘Well, that’s precisely where we’ve slipped up.’ She sank into one of the sofas and Trigger tried to clamber onto her lap. ‘Stop it you naughty dog! Get down! Get down will you!’ One of the Westies then jumped up at her, and Trigger snapped at it viciously. Her hand shot out and she smacked his behind. ‘Oh do stop it you bad, bad boy! Do you see what I mean?’ she sighed. ‘I wasn’t exaggerating, was I? It’s hopeless. Anyway, let’s have a cup of tea first.’

      As she disappeared, all three dogs running after her, slithering on the marble tiles, I glanced around the room. It was gorgeous—twenty-foot ceilings with egg and dart coving, in one corner a baby grand; two apricot-coloured Knole sofas, a scattering of mahogany tables, and an enormous fireplace with a marble surround. There were gleaming oils on the walls, and on the mantelpiece were several photos in silver frames, including one of Caroline on her wedding day. I looked at it, then looked away, glancing into the flower-filled garden. A solitary magpie swooped onto the lawn, chattering loudly. ‘One for sorrow,’ I said to myself quietly. Then I looked at the photo again…

      There was something strangely familiar about Caroline Mulholland’s husband, but I couldn’t for the life of me think what it was. He looked mid-to-late thirties in the photo, and his hair was receding and already quite grey. But he was certainly handsome—they made a good-looking couple. I found myself wondering what he did. No doubt he was a successful banker, or a captain of industry—perhaps I’d seen him on the news. Yes…that must account for my sense of déjà I thought: I’d seen him in the media somewhere. Caroline reappeared with a tray, then suggested that we had the tea outside so that I could see Trigger ‘in action’. But I’d already identified the problem—he was an over-indulged alpha male. He felt he should naturally be number one in the pack. He needed to have his status reduced.

      ‘He’s desperate to dominate,’ I explained, as we sat on the terrace, watching him with the other two dogs.

      Caroline put her tea cup down. ‘Is he?’

      ‘Yes. This might sound harsh, but what he needs is to be knocked off his pedestal.’

      ‘Really?’ she said. I nodded. ‘But how?’

      ‘By you taking far less notice of him. He’s a chronic show-off—if he’s got your attention he’s thrilled. And the more you shout at him, the more he likes it—because then he knows you’re focussed on him. You’re actually rewarding his “bad” behaviour by reacting to it.’

      ‘I am?’

      ‘Yes—you’re inadvertently indulging him.’

      ‘Oh. I see.’

      ‘Every time you shout at him, he actually thinks you’re praising him, so that’s going to make him worse.’

      ‘I see,’ she said again, thoughtfully.

      ‘I don’t like to anthropomorphize animals,’ I went on. ‘But let’s put it this way. If Trigger was human, he’d be driving round in a red BMW—which you’d probably bought him for his birthday—barging people off the road, ogling girls out of the window, then going to some party and getting horribly drunk.’

      ‘How awful,’ she said, with mock seriousness. ‘Like some silly “It boy”.’

      ‘Exactly.’

      ‘He’d embarrass us,’ she said, playing along. ‘He’d bring disgrace on the family,’ she added gravely. ‘He’d be getting into fights.’

      ‘I’m afraid he would. He’d be kicked out of school, he’d struggle to hold down a job and—I don’t want to alarm you—he might even take drugs.’

      ‘Really? ‘ She looked genuinely stricken. ‘Well,’ she added purposefully, as Trigger bounded joyfully about, barking his head off, ‘we’ve got to nip this in the bud.’

      ‘And we will. I won’t be able to “cure” him today,’ I pointed out. ‘But I can show you how you’re accidentally reinforcing his negative behaviour, then you’ll be able to work with him on your own. But you’ll need to be committed.’

      She looked at me seriously. ‘Okay. Tell me what to do.’

      I explained that the best punishment for Trigger was not to be yelled at—but to be totally ignored.

      ‘Dogs can’t stand it,’ I continued. ‘It’s the worst punishment in the world for them to be denied their human’s undivided attention—but that’s what you’ve got to do. And if he behaves really badly—say if he bites one of the other dogs—then he has to have some time out. Because if he’s tethered and the other two are free, that’ll really take him down a few pegs.’

      ‘I see.’ Trigger suddenly snapped at one of the Westies, then pinioned it to the ground.

      ‘Oh you beast!’ Caroline had rushed up to him and grabbed him by the collar.

      ‘No, don’t say anything,’ I said. ‘Simply tie him up somewhere.’

      ‘Tie him up?’

      ‘Yes. I know it sounds unkind, but it’s not.’

      Caroline disappeared for a moment, then reappeared with Trigger’s lead. Then she tethered him to the gatepost, in the shade, with a bowl of water.

      ‘Now, we’ll leave him there while we stroll around with the other dogs, off the lead. He won’t be able to stand it.’

      By the time we untied him five minutes later, Trigger was shaking and trembling. ‘Look how his body language has changed,’ I said. ‘He can’t understand why you did that to him. He found it incredibly humiliating. He’s upset and subdued. Look—he’s really grovelling.’ He was. He was practically sitting on Caroline’s feet, looking up at her imploringly, whimpering softly.

      ‘Wow,’ she breathed. ‘I see what you mean.’

      ‘If you really want his behaviour to improve, then you’ve got to make him feel less secure. Basically, he’s a bully,’ I said, ‘and like most bullies he’s a coward, so if you’re firm you’ll put him in his place. He’s got to have his desired position as top dog taken away,’ I reiterated.

      She nodded. ‘I just didn’t realize all this, because I’ve never had a difficult dog before.’

      ‘Well, does it make sense to you?’

      ‘Yes.’ She seemed surprised. ‘It does.’

      ‘What you need to do is to carry out a dominance reduction programme, both outside and inside the house.’ As we went in again, I reminded her that dogs are pack animals, and need to know their place in the hierarchy otherwise they feel unhappy and confused. ‘They’re like young children,’ I went on. ‘Children are happier when they’re given firm boundaries—and that’s what you’ve got to do with him. So you mustn’t let him sit on the sofa,’ I added, ‘or get on the bed—otherwise that means he’s at your own height. Don’t let him go through doors before you, and make him wait until you’ve eaten before he gets fed. In fact, feed the other dogs first.’

      ‘Really?’

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