The Practical Dog Listener: The 30-Day Path to a Lifelong Understanding of Your Dog. Jan Fennell

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       PROLOGUE

      Home Truths

      In the decade since I first began developing my ideas about communicating with dogs, I feel as if I’ve been travelling a long, mysterious – and seemingly endless – road. If I am honest, it has been a journey filled with more than its fair share of wrong turns and blind alleys. Yet around every corner there has been something new to learn.

      My travels have now taken me far from home, and the close-knit community of friends and fellow dog lovers within which I began my work. It has been a privilege to meet and help – either directly or indirectly – dogs and owners as far afield as Thailand and the United States, New Zealand and France. Wherever I have travelled I have encountered situations that, sometimes subtly, sometimes dramatically, have deepened my understanding and reaffirmed my belief in the principles of the hidden language that underpins dog behaviour. It is ironic, then, that the most powerful and painful lesson of recent times should have been delivered within the confines of my own home.

      There’s an old saying that if you want to give God a laugh, you tell him your plans. It never seemed so apt as it did in May 2001. At the time, I must admit, I had been feeling on top of the world. I had travelled to Poland to promote the publication of my first book, The Dog Listener. It was the first time I had ventured abroad to talk about my work. Meeting dog lovers in cities like Warsaw, Lodz and Cracow was an exciting and uplifting experience, something I’d never imagined would happen to me. I was guest of honour at the country’s main dog show and was feted on television shows and at Champagne receptions and dinners; they treated me like royalty. On the plane back from Warsaw, I had much more to look forward to: a follow-up book, planning a series for television in the UK and finalising the details for my trip to New York, for the launch of the American edition of the book in late July – all heady stuff.

      It wasn’t long after I had set my suitcases down that I was brought crashing back to earth. God, it seemed, had got wind of my plans. At the time my partner, Glenn, and I shared our home in Lincolnshire with nine dogs. I’d set off to Poland knowing that the oldest of them, my eleven-year-old Jack Russell, Barmie, had been ill for some time. I wrote about Barmie in my previous book. I had come across him at an animal sanctuary where he had been brought after being discovered tied to a concrete block by a piece of rope. He had been horribly emaciated and was trembling: not just because it was winter at the time but also because he was utterly petrified of humans. I dread to think what sort of abuse he had suffered in his earlier life. The sanctuary was ready to put him to sleep because he was too nervous and aggressive to fit into a family home. I took him in and he became the first great test of my compassionate training method, then in its embryonic stage.

      In the seven years I’d had him, Barmie had overcome his fear to lead a happy and fulfilled life. He was a bundle of good-natured energy. Unfortunately, because of the damage he’d suffered in his early years, he’d needed a great deal of medication. As he reached the autumn years of his life, it was clear the cumulative effect of the necessary steroids had weakened him. By that Spring his coat was bare – more skin than fur – his liver was enlarged and he was terribly weak. He was vomiting a lot: everything was breaking down. I’d been telling friends before my trip to Poland that I feared the worst. Sure enough, I got back to learn that he was in a pitiful state. I knew his time was at hand.

      An even bigger bombshell lay ahead, however. Even before Barmie, my greatest insight into canine behaviour had been provided by Sasha, a beautiful, black German shepherd I had acquired as a puppy. I had begun my search for a new approach to communicating with dogs in 1990 after meeting the ‘Horse Whisperer’, Monty Roberts. Seeing him bring wild and untamed horses under control without resorting to force or violence of any kind had struck a profound chord within me. I had set out to find a way of training dogs in the same non-violent manner, communicating with the dog in its own language in the same way that Monty connected with horses. Sasha had come into my home soon afterwards and immediately proved an inspiration. More than any other of my dogs, Sasha had shown me the startling similarities between the leadership behaviour within the wolf pack and the domestic ‘pack’ of its distant relative, the dog. Without her guiding example, I would never have gained the knowledge I possess today.

      Sasha was eight years old. She’d had problems with her waterworks about six weeks earlier, but a course of antibiotics seemed to cure her. About five days before I had flown to Poland the problem returned, only this time she was passing blood. The vet prescribed a stronger antibiotic and asked us to provide a urine sample so that he could work out the precise nature of her problem. When I got back from Poland, Glenn told me he had difficulty getting this from Sasha; she was having trouble passing water of any kind and her stomach had turned into a hard mass.

      I had arrived back on a Thursday evening. On the Friday morning we had arranged to take Barmie to the vet. To be honest, I sensed the end was near. That morning he had been sick in the garden and had been unable to lift himself back to his feet after falling. When I described Sasha’s condition to the vet, he told me to bring her along for an examination as well.

      While one vet went off to examine Sasha, we went into one of the rooms with Barmie. It was clear now that he was in some pain. We took the decision to have him put to sleep. There are owners who can’t bear to be present at this moment but, for me, it’s so important that the last thing a dog sees is a friendly face, and that’s what I provided for Barmie. At around noon on Friday, I sat there with him and cuddled him as the injection was administered. He was ready to go: he passed away within seconds.

      On the way out, we spoke to the vet who was examining Sasha. The early prognosis seemed to be that she had a blockage, perhaps stones. I was so upset about Barmie I couldn’t really think beyond that. I told them to do whatever was necessary, even if it meant operating. To be honest, I assumed the problem was treatable.

      It was 3.30pm when the telephone rang again. The vet said: ‘It’s very bad news.’ An x-ray had shown that there was no blockage. Further examination had shown that Sasha’s bladder muscle had stopped working. He would do what he could to stimulate the bladder but he was not hopeful. I put the telephone down in a state of shock. I couldn’t believe what was happening.

      Rather than leaving Sasha in the clinic overnight, I brought her home. On Saturday morning I took her back to the vet and left her for more tests. At midday СКАЧАТЬ