A Dog’s Best Friend. Jan Fennell

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      One morning I was walking Shane in a local park with my father. At the far corner of the park, we saw a collection of lorries and caravans. It was early autumn and the first fair of the season had arrived in our neck of the woods.

      As we got closer to the mini-village that had sprung up there, we were suddenly aware of a rather large, black German shepherd. In those days – as now – German shepherds had an undeserved reputation for being aggressive and occasionally violent. As this one came out and looked at us, my father instinctively drew Shane back and put him back on the lead. But it was soon obvious he had no cause for concern. It was as if there was an invisible barrier there – the German shepherd took two steps towards us then stopped. I was confused as to why it had done this, but soon it was clear it had responded to its owner, a rather scruffy looking figure who was soon walking towards us.

      ‘Morning, lovely day, isn’t it?’ he said.

      ‘Morning, yes, smashing,’ my father replied. ‘I was just looking at your dog. Have you got him on an invisible line or something?’ he joked. ‘I’ve never seen one of them so well behaved.’

      The man turned round to look at his dog, still standing perfectly still.

      ‘Oh, he just knows his boundaries – all my dogs do,’ he smiled.

      My father had a keen interest in dogs too and got chatting to the man. It turned out he had half a dozen or so dogs, mainly for guarding the valuables that he and his family took with them as they travelled the country with the fair.

      He talked about how he trained them, then got each of them to specialise in different tasks around the fair. ‘You want them to frighten the right people,’ he said, at one point, gesturing to me. ‘They’re no use to me if they scare little girls away from my rides.’

      It was clear that this was someone who knew a lot about dogs. ‘Do you mind if I ask you a question?’ I said nervously.

      ‘Not at all, young lady, fire away,’ he said, smiling.

      In recent weeks, one problem had been obsessing me above all others. It had all begun with a prank played by a kid called Ronnie in Rowallan Road in Fulham, where I lived at the time.

      The most popular toy of the day was a thing called a ‘cracker’ – a triangular piece of cardboard with a piece of paper folded inside it. It looked innocuous enough, but when you flicked this thing it made a really sharp cracking noise.

      I was walking down Rowallan Road with Shane one day when Ronnie jumped out and let out this huge crack. It made me jump, but it sent Shane into the most terrible spin. It was the beginning of a nervous streak that had grown progressively worse. It was now so bad that he even became agitated at the sound of rain rapping on the windows outside. Bonfire night was still some way off, but it had already become a date to dread as far as I was concerned.

      I had tried all sorts of things, but mainly reassuring Shane with a cuddle. It had somehow made matters worse rather than better. Here was someone who clearly understood dogs more deeply than I did. What was there to lose in asking?

      ‘How do the dogs cope with the noise? What with all the squeals and whoops coming from the rides, it must be frightening for them?’

      ‘No, love, none of my dogs are afraid of noises,’ he said. ‘I just leave them to it.’

      ‘What do you mean?’ I said, a bit confused.

      ‘Well, there’s nothing to fear, is there? We all know that. So if we behave as if there’s nothing to fear, they’ll get the message eventually.’

      I thought perhaps he had a point, so I decided I’d try his advice out the next time it rained. I didn’t have to wait long. A few nights later, there was a particularly heavy downpour. Shane went into a funk as usual – but this time I tried to resist the urge to cuddle him. I carried on reading and playing records in my room as if nothing was happening, trying desperately to relay the message that there was nothing to fear.

      At the age of fifteen, you expect everything to happen in an instant. As far as I could see my behaviour was having next to no effect on Shane, who was now cowering under my bed. I loved Shane so much, I couldn’t bear the sight of him distressed. Soon he was cuddled up alongside me on top of the bed, shivering as the winds drove the rain against the window pane with even greater intensity.

      Hindsight is, of course, a marvellous thing. Now I know I was doing the complete opposite of what I should have been doing. More than anything else Shane needed to be assured there was nothing wrong. And he needed to be assured by a figure in whom he had absolute trust and confidence. Instead, I had made two cardinal errors. First, I had been inconsistent, changing my mind about how to deal with the situation and giving poor Shane mixed signals in the process. Then, when I came to cuddle him, I had confirmed his worst fears – the rain was something to feel threatened by and to hide from after all. My intentions had been good, but in the end I had only added to his anxiety.

      Eventually I would see the wisdom of the words of the man from the fair. The ideas he implanted in my mind would grow into one of the fundamental building blocks of my method. But if only I’d been old – and wise – enough to have understood them at the time, Shane’s life might have been a slightly happier one.

       ‘WHAT’S IN IT FOR ME?’

       Why great owners work with, not against, their dogs

      Dogs operate according to a simple rule – the ‘What’s in It for Me?’ principle. In essence, any owner wanting to get willing cooperation from their dog has to work on the understanding that it – like them – works according to fundamentally selfish instincts. It is not going to do something unless there is a tangible benefit from doing so. This was something I first glimpsed with my cousin Doreen and her attitude to Tinker. But it was another forward-thinking member of the family who taught me how productive this idea could really be.

      My Uncle George was the oldest of my father’s five siblings and he lived with my Aunt Ellen at their home in West London, near Heathrow Airport. We visited them often and I always looked forward to the trip, again mainly because it meant I could spend time with a dog – in this case their black and tan crossbreed, Rex.

      Rex was a mixture of all sorts of breeds – he probably had some German shepherd in him somewhere – and had a curly tail, big pointy ears and a slightly foxy look. He was a hugely affectionate dog and always made a beeline for me when I visited George and Ellen. While the rest of the family chatted away, I’d sit out in the garden, stroking him or playing ball.

      George was in his late fifties by then, retired from his job as a lorry driver. He was a straightforward, down-to-earth man and his relationship with his dog was absolutely typical of the period. They were very relaxed with each other. Rex would sit by Uncle George’s feet most of the time and would go out with him every morning to get the newspaper. There were no big shows of affection or emotion, but that was the way in those days. As for training, I don’t think the idea had ever СКАЧАТЬ