Labor Day hasn't yet arrived, and still, here I am, contemplating the days left in the year and how they will be measured out. If only TS Eliot was right and coffee spoons could be used... but looks like it's going to be a flying finish to the very end, trying to cram in as much as possible before I take a deep breath and hang up my brain for a rest around the holidays.

Several friends have had health scares this year, and I had one of my own. And all of us ended up contemplating our mortality a bit more than usual. (By time you're my age, old pal Mort is a frequent guest who stops by for coffee on a regular basis.) I am relieved to say that my own little scare was -- like just about all my serious health woes in my life - dog induced. Turns out that when you're laying in bed, and a 100 pound dog leaps over you and misses, and one of those big paws doesn't miss, you can develop quite a lump in your breast. But it doesn't show up right away. Nope. That would be too easy an equation: OW = lump & bruise. Did get the bruise. Didn't find the lump until a heart stopping moment nearly a week later.

I've read plenty of advice on how to find the right doctor. Not one article, not even in Cosmo or Good Housekeeping or The Whole Dog Journal, bothered to mention that for people like me, a good doctor should possess a working knowledge of exactly what forms of breakage and damage can be inflicted on a person by her loving animals friends. For example, years ago, I had to call my doctor at the time and ask if she felt my health might be endangered by the firm insertion of an inch or so of raw mouse spine into my instep. There was a long pause before she answered. I hadn't inserted the mouse, but rather stepped on it getting out of bed -- it was a gift from a cat who had thoughtfully eaten the back half, leaving me the front (and frankly, cuter) mouse half. It is quite the wake up call to step sleepily from a comfortable bed, feel a sharp pain shooting into your foot, pick up your foot to look at what might be stuck, and find yourself staring at the equally surprised face of a half-mouse stabbed well into your sole. We had very similar expressions, the mouse and I. But I recovered.

Anyhow, my current doctor is a grand guy. But he was on vacation, leaving me with a substitute doc who does not understand what animals can inflict on those they love. She didn't get animals at all. In fact, when I noted that my dog had landed on my breast with the force of a sledgehammer, and pointed out that the worrisome lump was located conveniently under the bruises left by the beast, she shook her head with authority. "There is nothing a dog could do that could cause a lump like that!" Left me wondering what kind of experiments they ran at her medical school. I figured it wasn't worth the breath to list all the fun things i knew for a fact that a dog or even a small kitten could do to the human form.

Many tests and pokes and prods later, a more reasonable doctor who understood dogs noted wryly that yep, being landed on by a dog that big surely could cause a hematoma that large. He jokingly suggested I get rid of the offending canine, and more seriously recommended a follow-up ultra-sound to be uber certain in a few months. Not long ago, I had that follow-up, and all was well. Though I do take evasive maneuvers more frequently when large dogs are launching nearby.

All by long way of saying that the year's already been fun, and I could do with a rest. But Robert Frost did not measure stuff in coffeespoons but in miles to go before sleep. I'm looking forward to the upcoming workshop at WOLF PARK in Battleground, IN, where I have the immense privilege of teaching with Pat Goodmann and of course the wolves! After that, down to my old stomping grounds in NJ to teach for West Jersey K-9 SAR , which offers the bonus of old friends and familiar roads added to the joy of teaching. I'm very excited to be offering the first ever RAT workshop (Relationship Assessment Tool) in the Chicago area in late October at For Your K9. And then - please do break out the violins and wailing women, grab a hankie 'cuz this is sad and hard to hear - it's off to Holland, Belgium and Italy to teach and sightsee a bit. Belgian vet behaviorist Dr. Rudy de Meester is among my favorite people on the planet, and my four Italian friends (Monica, Ilaria, Roberto, Alberto) will make me feel like I've come home all over again. I'll even get to visit my grandpup Ilaria who is now a brood at the Dutch guide dog school (just had her first 11 pups!).

So exciting to be teaching in Europe again - the seminar attendees are quite unlike American audiences. I once asked a very permissive dog owner in Italy if she would let a child act in such unruly ways as her dogs. She shrugged and smiled, and said, "Si! Es a bambino, eh?" I quickly revised my analogy, asking if she would allow a man to treat her the way her dog did, disregarding anything she did, showing no interest in where she went. She immediately drew herself up, and with a sharp tone and angrily flashing eyes proclaimed, "NO!"

I love the cultural differences, the food, the wine, the people, the dogs, the antiquity of it all. Some days I wake up just flat out astounded that this is my life -- all those years of scooping poop and watching dogs be dogs paid off in ways I could never have imagined.The amazing people and animals and places I get to see enrich my life beyond measure, and I have found some real treasures who have become dear friends.

So much to fit in between Labor Day and when my labor's finally cease in mid-December. A flying finish, galloping through the days and miles with gratitude that this is my life's work. A good gallop indeed... hope to see some of you along the way.

HAPPY LABOR DAY!

A friend alerted me today to a disturbing video on YouTube. It's been there for a while, though I was happily unaware of it until now. With one click, I stepped into a new definition of abuse: a well known "positive" trainer displaying her female dog's new trick - humping her leg on command.

Anyone can see abuse in an animal that is beaten, starved, mutilated, hung or killed. The Michael Vicks case still looms large as he tries to put his life back together post-prison. That kind of abuse is clear.

But what of the laughing demonstration of a trainer's skill in manipulating an animal into humping her leg on command? Whatever the species, engaging any other being's sexual behavior for your own purposes IS abuse. If this were a child or another human, charges would be filed. If this were a man teaching this to his female dog, there would be outright hysteria. If this were Cesar using humping behavior to prove that any behavior can be trained and put under control, there would probably be a march on National Geographic's headquarters.

This is not a beer drinking moron or senseless stoner armed with a video camera and hell bent on demonstrating their dog's willingness to hump a person. This is a prominent, highly regarded award winning trainer/author's video. When you view her proud presentation on how her dog humps her leg on command, YouTube offers up others similar in content, a motley collection of morons & stoners and humping dogs. The only difference is that the famous trainer has better stimulus control of the behavior than the morons do. Nice company for the trainer someone called, "the most rational voice in dog training today." (It's not attributed, but used to promote her latest DVDs. Perhaps the author of that bon mot has a different definition of "rational" than I do.)

The YouTube video is presented as a demonstration of "how ANY behavior can be captured, reinforced and cemented" -- an arrogant justification of a disrespectful, abusive interaction, though she hastens to assure the viewer "Nobody was hurt" and that she doesn't advocate anybody else doing it. She then adds, "if you don't think it's 'appropriate' then avert your eyes." On that basis, we can merely look away from all abuse in dog training and elsewhere. So simple... no need to protest or write letters or file charges - just look away if you're offended. But we're not quite done with the whole disgusting mess as she smugly adds, "You just had to watch, didn't you?"

For me, yes, I did have to watch. Because in order to criticize, I must actually read, see or hear what it is I am going to comment on. Because when the founder & Director of the San Fransisco SPCA's Academy for Dog Training is the one chuckling that she could get some great obedience out of her dog if she used the humping as a reward, yes, I do have to watch the whole damn thing. I watch in order to convince my disbelieving ears and eyes that the famous Jean Donaldson, award winning author and speaker at this year's conference for the Association of Pet Dog Trainers (APDT) is the one I'm watching. (note: corrected 9/2/09 - Jean is no longer a member of APDT; is a speaker for this year's conference)

Jean notes early on in the video : "I have no shame." There's the truth spoken clear.

Jean offers an appalling display of abuse of and disrespect for another being. I find it immensely sad that this is promoted in any way as part of "positive dog training." She prides herself on not using aversives or choke collars. Pity she hasn't learned that respectful training needs to also include the other being's mind, emotions and dignity.

Donaldson is a teacher. And this is an instructional video. When we see how things ought not be, we do have the opportunity to strengthen our resolve about what should be. On that score, this disturbing video teaches all too well.

Recently, I was contacted by Shambhala Sun magazine with a series of questions they asked me to answer for their blog, SunSpace. Interesting to have them note that they felt my approach was informed by Buddhist principles, particularly my blog pieces. I'm not a Buddhist, though many Buddhist ideas resonate deeply with me. You can read the "interview" at Shambhala Sun .

Beginning about 2 months ago, we hit a wave of events that turned this summer (so far) into something far from what I had imagined and planned. It all began when Rain, our lovely broodbitch, aborted her entire litter of pups about 2 weeks prior to whelping. Fearing a uterine infection, we chose to spay her, ending a remarkable breeding career that put a number of breeding animals into guide schools, as well as producing lovely pups that have been a blessing for the families who love them. That was a rough blow for Rain, who has bounced back. Tough for us, and tough for all the folks waiting patiently for their pup to be born.

That was followed by more veterinary events than I care to list or detail. Suffice it to say that for the past 7 weeks, we have averaged a vet visit (whether large or small animal) every 3 days. I can't tell if the hands-down winner was the cow who needed TWO vet calls in one day, or the day when I was driving out to see one vet with 3 dogs in the car (only chiropractic appointments, thankfully!) precisely as one of our large animal vets drove in to see the horse who had a badly swollen eye. Or the phone call at 11 PM to report that the colicking horse was doing fine, a call made from the horse's stall. Only to have the horse glance over, drop to the floor and demonstrate with remarkable clarity, "Um, I'm actually not feeling all that well at the moment..."

Woven through it all are several deaths, none of them expected, all shocking and sad. All involved very young or unborn animals, leading me to spend a lot of time watching the wind blow in the trees while dogs race around me, listening to the pigs argue among themselves in grunts and squeals, watching the horses swish flies, and wondering why . . . Why did these little souls come so close to being here and then -- then what? change their minds? be called to some other purpose? Or was this their purpose? Believing as I do that each soul serves a purpose, brings a lesson (and has lessons to learn), I cannot help but turn over and over in my mind these puzzles of life.

Sometimes, I feel clarity rising from the murky depths, feeling understanding and acceptance coming into focus. It is very much like watching a fish ascend to a lake's surface. First a shadowy movement, and then -- ever brighter, ever clearer -- the fish begins to emerge until there it is! illuminated in unexpected beauty. But understanding is a wary fish that gleams sharply for a moment and then retreats in a flashing turn and is gone again, back into the darker corners of my mind where I can sense but cannot articulate what I feel or what I know.

Acceptance does not come easily. Apparently, I have constructed a life in which I have the chance for on-going practice of accepting what I cannot understand, accepting the mysteries of life and death, accepting that despite my finest efforts and despite my carelessness and errors, Life has a plan, the details to which I am not privy.

When I was in elementary school, my mother never understood how I could walk to school using an umbrella and end up still soaked through. She didn't know that I tucked the loathed umbrella under a neighbor's shrub, and proceeded to walk into the rain deliberately, seeking the sensation of rain hitting me, accepting it with delight. All around me, other people fought it, guarded against it, bundled themselves up to ward off the rain. Turns out that was one of the earlier lessons in my life for which I am learning the bigger applications. If I fight rain, I end up not just wet as is inevitable, but also tired and spent, and possibly angry. I keep discovering that the same is true in Life.

The lessons continue in acceptance, in playing the odds knowing full well that for everyone I love there's a turn of the daily dice that will be the final one. Such a blessing, to live these mysteries.

Spring has truly sprung here. The resident woodcocks are back, winging their way around the farm in relentless circling flights, making the noise that long ago led me to dub the male Curly, as he sounds just like Curly from the 3 Stooges (wah, wah, wah, wah, wah...) The frogs & toads are singing their hearts out every night, a glorious chorus that blankets the marsh areas with a thrill of sounds. And a few days ago, my heart went a-flutter with delight as the season's first barn swallow swooped past, more agile and splendid in flight than even the best of man's efforts to take wing ourselves.

But the lesson of the day lies in the plants. Unwilling to restrain myself, I had purchased some broccoli plants, and unusual annual flowers from a favorite greenhouse nearby. To be sure, my delusional state was aided and abetted by the warm, sunny day on which my friend Wendy and I shopped, eyeing the nascent tomatoes and luscious peonies, assessed the lillies (what color would the tagless ones be?), and muttered about the fussiness of roses despite their charm and fragrance.

In my mind's eye, the plants I purchased were already planted, watered, fed and well established even as I lifted them into the car. The broccoli was damn near ready to pick and eat by time I drove home. Such is the nature of fantasies. 

Reality is that the weather is not quite right just yet. We've had several nights of frost just recently. These plants cannot be planted for the most part, but sit in their starter pots, brought out every mid-morning by my husband & fellow gardener John, and put away again in a protected place each evening. The broccoli has been planted, but still tender, unable to bear a heavy frost, those plants have needed protection on cold nights, another chore for John. While he's well accustomed to my flights of fancy leading to getting the cart ahead of the horse at times, he also understands the lure of sun warmed soil in his hands, the visions induced by those infernal seed catalogs, and the ease of fantasty versus the sweat, time and money that has to be poured into reality.

Having chosen to push past the reality of the season, having opted to not wait till all would be easy and safe, we laid several new burdens on the daily plate, to protect these little beings from a life they cannot currently survive without our help. Maybe it's a form of being responsibly unrealistic or accountably impatient.

All of this came home hard to me while dealing with a client who had (to my mind) wildly unrealistic expectations for the family dog. The dog was being given way too much freedom, was making very bad (and somewhat dangerous) decisions, and yet the client persisted in believing that all was pretty much well except for one specific behavior that should be adjusted -- with no understanding that the one specific behavior was just one tip of a multi-tipped iceberg. 

In thinking things over, I kept asking myself, "Why do people have such unrealistic expectations for their dogs?" Watching John walk out to the garden to cover the broccoli plants for the 3rd night in a row, I realized there were many reasons for unrealistic choices - hopeful fantasies, lack of knowledge of what it really takes for things to go right, and what can go wrong when the situation is not well suited for all to thrive and grow. The only difference between the unreaslistic dog owners and myself as an unrealistic gardener wanting to jump the season is this: a willingness to be responsible to and accountable for pushing past the season's edge, for bringing home plants ill-suited to the moment, for creating the need to attend to yet another living being's needs.

However it is that we push past a reality, we are obligated to embrace the new reality created in the wake of that choice. With dogs (and other animals), I often see people pushing past. They adopt the fearful dog who lived tied to a tree --- and then expect to take long, relaxed walks in town and to be able to turn their terrified undersocialized pet loose at the local dog park to "have fun." They rescue the dog from a puppy mill, their fantasy being that this will make a great therapy dog at the local nursing home, when in reality, the dog finds being touched by strangers abhorrent, and something to be endured, not enjoyed. They have a dog who doesn't enjoy crowds or strange dogs or the pressure of repetitive training -- and yet wish to finish the dog's championship or get just "one more Q" or acquire just "one more title." Might be that with time, the season will be right for all that. Might also be a case of trying to grow tomatoes at the Arctic circle on permafrost.

Push past if you wish. But just remember to protect the tender from the frost till the season is right.

In the lexicon of farmers who spend their days with cattle, there are poetic descriptions. A first time mother-to-be is a "springing heifer." A cow with a newly born calf is said to have "freshened." These are apt and lovely descriptions, as I learned one morning many years ago.

Dandelion was one of our favorite cows. Long past her first exciting moments as a springing heifer, she was an experienced mother. This particular morning, in the cool promise of spring breezes, she had freshened, delivering a dark red heifer calf. I did not see the birth, though Dandelion's swollen udder had pointed to impending delivery.

Not noticeably smaller this morning despite the calf's move from inside momma to out on terra firma, Dandelion nonetheless drew my eye as she stood just apart from the rest of the herd who were happy with their morning meal. She half heartedly looked at the hay, then turned to stand as if searching the far pasture. Then I saw the bloody discharge that still clung to her tail and hindquarters, and knew that she was searching for her calf though I could not see one anywhere in the pasture.

Dandelion called, and called again. Through the fence, out in the lane leading to the lower pasture, there stirred a dark red calf who answered its mother's voice while struggling to unsteady feet. I raced to shut off the electric fence that separated momma & calf, who must have wandered through the fence when I had it turned off to feed another group of cows. Dandelion called, and her baby answered, a duet that continued as each step on barely used hooves brought the calf back to her side.

What then to name this new freshening of the world? From Dandelion, my mind moved easily to Buttercup. This name called up refrains from Gilbert & Sullivan, and describes summer pleasures of lush grass and meadows strewn with nodding yellow heads, I say "Buttercup" and remember a childhood test to see who loved butter, easily determined by holding a buttercup just under a chin and looking for the reflected yellow on the skin. When I hug this calf, will those who care to look see a reflection of her mahoghany red coat on my chin? Perhaps not, but it will matter not a whit - reflection or no, this calf will be loved.

The arrival of a calf is hardly a headline moment. It is a simple joy (though not a simple thing) and outside of a few interested friends,this moment and others like it go largely unnoticed. And yet I cannot help but think that it is through such daily miracles and small but glorious ways that the world itself is continually freshened anew. And in little Buttercup herself, I saw what I see in every newborn: a glimmer of a promise that someday, she too will freshen the world in her own way.

Here's to spring and springing; here's to fresh breezes and a freshening of the world. May you find it all not only in your physical world, but also in your heart.

Math was never one of my favorite subjects. Not particularly interested in the relative speeds of trains traveling east or west or even upside down, I discovered more joy in math later in life when it gave me the answers I sought in trying to work out proper dosages or feed rations or how many board feet a stall wall would require. In other words, as soon as math involved animals, it had value for my life.

While others may find it alarming to contemplate the billions and trillions our government is throwing around, it turns out that my own private maths can cause an equally overwhelming feeling of "this is too much to bear." For example, in one nightmarish moment when we had a litter of 12 pups plus our 10 adult dogs, I calculated how many nails I had clipped that day: 374 (no missing toes, just no dewclaws on one dig, no need to clip back feet on another, and one reluctant participant who allowed a couple to be clipped that day). And I nicked only 4. 99% perfection. 1% failure rate. 

But I digress: the point was that the sheer number of toes that needed to be dealt with rocked me back on my heels. The only sane response, of course, was to decide to give up clipping my own toenails, which would only bring the total higher.

In the interest of helping others avoid the sleepless moments I've had due to the use of math in combination with animals, I offer these tips:

1. Count sheep if you must. But not if you actually own any. Friends I know who have real sheep report that if they try to count real sheep, they end up unable to sleep, and usually completely awake, at their computer, researching the pedigree on that promising young ewe and calculating inbreeding co-efficients if they breed her to that ram five states away. If I try counting cattle, I end up far from embracing Morpheus but instead end up working through complicated equations involving vaccinations, estimating wormer dosages and yield per ton per acre of pasture. Hardly sleep inducing.

2. Avoid adding up feed bills. Likewise for veterinary bills. The cumulative weight of feed and vet bills is actually a number that mathematicians have no name for, but trust me: whatever you call it, it is a unit of measure that is far more than the sum of its parts, as it contains within it not only the money actually spent but also the clothes, furniture, jewelry, vacations, luxuries and new cars that it replaces. Some folks go to Maui. I take care of the bills for those who meow (and bark, squawk, whinny, moo, squeal, etc.)

3. When mud season arrives, do not count feet. Do not attempt to resolve this math problem: If two humans, 11 dogs, and 2 calves (you read that right) enter and exit the house at least 8x per day, how many muddy footprints will cross the threshholds? I tell you, the answer will keep you awake a long time. Really... that's 56 feet/paws minimum, and if we count each exit as also requiring a re-entry, that's 56 x 2 x 8 = 896 muddy pawprints. That's just if we stepped out into the mud and returned to stand still. I've calculated this further that it takes at least 6 steps (another 24 per animal, 12 per human) for the carried-in mud to be mostly wiped off. So for each trip in/out, that's close to 2600 muddy pawprints for the day. Forget about extra trips in and out to bark at the UPS man and such. This does not count the tonnage of mud carried on bellies (animals only; John and I try to keep our bellies clean).

I'll tell you what eases me back into sleep: the realization that the homes I visit that are neat, clean, that have floors you could eat off are operating under much different equations. Algebraic formulas are not required to contemplate what comes and goes over their floors. These earnest folks tell me that it's really quite simple: I just need to wipe off the dogs' paws each time they come in, and voila! problem solved, rugs clean, etc. I silently choke back my laughter.

And I assume they failed math.

When I was little, one of my favorite Christmas carols was Away in a Manger. To my mind, I did not think there could be anything better than being born in a stable, unless of course it was being allowed to grow up and live in the barn. Not far from our house when I was young was a gas station that every year had a "live" creche, complete with a sheep or two, a donkey and a cow. They didn't go so far as having a live baby, but that wouldn't have interested me at any rate. It was the animals. I would gaze at them quietly chewing their hay, and try to imagine being the one in the manger with that soft sound of animals breathing and chewing all around me. Heaven on earth...

I've never stopped thinking that living in a barn is a grand idea. On drives through New England, I look with immense envy on those old farmhouses where the barn and house are conjoined. Once, I stayed with a woman in the midwest who DID have a barn attached to her fancy home. I will go to my grave remembering these two things about that stay: 1. The tremendous joy of being able to go from kitchen with coffee cup in hand and just pad a short distance down a hall, open a door, and be there in the barn, roomy box stalls lining either side of the wide aisle. 2. The deep disappointment in knowing that only in my imagination were those stalls populated by horses who would eagerly greet us with nickers; she had turned this very nice barn into a kennel.

Over the years, an interesting assortment of animals not normally considered housepets have been in residence in the house for various reasons and for stays that ranged from a day or two to months. My old donkey friend, Freaky Deaky, is 26 this spring. Way back about 25 years ago, he lived in the basement of my farmhouse for nearly 6 months. It clearly made a difference to that dying donkey then as he's still with me now. Professor Spot, our senior pig at the moment, lived in the bedroom for a while after surgery, as did his niece Daisy & nephew Nehi when brutal temps threatened their ability to survive as the smallest of their big litter - nights spent in the house spared them the struggle to just stay warm while during the day they did all their usual piglet things with Mom and siblings. Walt the turkey, Jose the rooster, Amelia the hen, Cooper the duck, Zuzu the calf, Sally Jo the goat, Andre the blue jay, Merlin the pigeon, and others have been part of the household over the years. Our dogs are quite accustomed to the arrival of guests of all variety.

Last night, mucking out the stall in the dog room, I realized I'd reached the outer edges of my personal heaven, though certainly not Main Street. The stall belongs to Storm, the calf we had for Christmas instead of a tree. He has grown strong and sturdy in the last few months. He's a commuter calf now, spending his days in the barn with another calf and other animals, returning in the evening to bed down in the pen we built for him in the room where muddy, wet or otherwise needing to be crated dogs are kept. It's become part of life's routine here. In the morning, there's the sound of hooves on the old pine floor as Storm follows John through the house and then down the front porch stairs, and then off to the barn. Evenings see his return, increasingly later and later as the temperatures have warmed up and daylight is flooding more hours every day.

While Storm sleeps in his pen each evening, there's another calf in the house now. Annelise is not quite 2 weeks old today, and like Storm, unable to nurse from her very good mother for a number of reasons. Unlike Storm, she did not miss her colostrum, and so her immune system is strong. Her legs are crooked (positioning in the uterus) but will straighten with time and exercise. Like Storm, she was born during very cold weather, and it was only a matter of minutes before we came to the realization that once again, we needed to set up the calf pen in the living room and spare her that struggle. 

But Annelise has taken things a bit further than any other calf. Like Storm, she commutes daily to the barn, following John and Storm across the lawn and up the drive to continue her education as a cow, get exercise and learn about the world. She returns to spend the evening napping on soft blankets in her pen in the living room. But at night, once all the dogs have been put out for last call in the yard, Annelise is roused, and off we go to the bedroom where she spends the night in a pen beside my bed. I can only blame the furniture and my age for this.

If the sofas we have were anything resembling kind to aging bodies, I'd probably have done what we did with Storm, and sleep downstairs with Annelise. Social animals shouldn't be isolated, and we take that very seriously, even if it means altering our own sleep patterns and place. But given that my body is just recovering from weeks sleeping on the couch with Storm nearby when he was so sick, I knew I'd best plan something else. Annelise was light (maybe 60 pounds) and thus could be easily carried to another pen set up beside my bed.

The first night, John carried her up with no problem. She proved to be a thoughtful guest, waking me with soft noises when she got up and needed to pee, giving me plenty of time to swing out of bed, place the bucket and catch the contribution. Never mind that she needed to get up and do something about every 2.5-3 hours. Unbroken sleep is perhaps overrated. Perhaps. I believe I'll sleep plenty when I'm dead. I focused on her polite notices.

The second night, John wasn't available. I knew I could carry her myself, but not in one unbroken march. I gathered her up, went about 4 steps, and put her down to rest myself. To my surprise, she stood for a moment, then oriented herself uphill, and cool as a cucumber, started climbing the stairs. I just followed behind, providing a safety net, though I think my mouth was hanging open so far she could have tumbled into my gaping maw if she lost her balance. And that was that --- every night, she climbs the stairs without hesitation, marches through the dogs at the bedroom door, turns left, heads for her pen, curls up, and settles in for the night.

Yes, she still moos to let me know she's up and needing something. It's a mixed blessing. Being woken repeatedly during the night is tiring. But dear Lord, when I wake up to find a bright eyed calf staring at me, waiting for my eyes to meet hers, her beloved little face within arm's reach of my own face, I know I'm close to my idea of Heaven.

Away in the Manger is meant to be a song about humble beginnings. Guess I always misunderstood it. I thought it was a celebration of life as I think it's meant to be: surrounded by animals.

I get asked often, "What are the best rewards to use?"

Sometimes, folks mean what food treats do I recommend. The answer is, whatever the dog says is tasty & worth having. Try a taste test with as many different kinds of treats you can round up. You might be surprised to find that one dog thinks is the cat's pajamas elicits rather ho-hum responses from others. Taste is a really personal thing. And dogs could care less what you think is a great treat, or, conversely, what you think is a poor treat.

I once gave a handler my lovely German Shepherd Tasy at a big Futurity/Maturity show, and also her favorite treat -- carrot sticks. He refused to use them as bait in the ring, despite the dog dancing around eager eyed, begging for them, and demonstrating her willingness to work for the little orange sticks. He insisted on using liver. Mostly because he was so macho the thought of using carrot sticks offended him. Tasy went along with the liver only plan, but once out of the ring, went back to begging me for carrots. I've had dogs in my classes that flipped over frozen peas, Kix cereal, bits of celery, and -- bless you Doc, wherever you be! -- tissues.

Sometimes, what folks mean by reward is what kind of toy or game do I recommend? Having dealt with some unhappy canines who were being forced into the "joy" of tugging, I can say that not all games and not all toys suit all dogs. Rather sad, the trend among agility circles that says if you don't have a dog who tugs fiercely and exuberantly you'll have problems ... pity the poor dog forced into a game he really doesn't like all that much. They always have a look that reminds me more than a little of hapless bridesmaids, forced to wear lime green poofy sleeved dresses with giant bows that are positioned to make it seem that the cleavage presented is actually a present to be opened. Games, toys -- ask the dog what she enjoys. And listen. Really listen to the answer. (And do not dress your friends in lime green poofy sleeved dresses, ever.)

(Professional trainer secret: If you have to spend time and energy figuring out ways to get a dog to play a specific game, chances are good it's not one he finds really neato. Remember, dog training should not be revenge for the piano or violin lessons your parents forced you to take, even if now as an adult you do love being able to play an instrument. If you want to pay someone back for that, have children. Leave the dog out of it.)

Real life rewards are wonderful. Particularly for this reason: the dog himself tells you what's valuable to him. What could be better than the dog making a list with you of all the things he thinks are really worth having and thus working with you to achieve? Here's some strange but true real life rewards that I've used in seminar settings because dogs told me they found them worthwhile:

• a hair scrunchy
• crickets
• looking under a board or log or even a piece of paper
• sniffing trees
• flies*
• flowers plucked from the lawn (dandelions, violets)
  
• an index card
• empty plastic bottles
• making birds fly off the lawn
• a chance to stuff their head under my shirt

* The use of flies led to an odd publicity moment for me. A reporter and photographer had been sent to cover a seminar I was teaching at an IL animal shelter. It was one of those fall days where the sun streams hotly through the windows, waking up those fat cluster flies. You know the ones, slow lazy fliers, often found upside down buzzing loudly in your coffee or hair, or, in this case, windowsills. I was working with Lad, a superb young Border Terrier, and our job was learning to just be, to practice self control and be still. I'd ask for a bit of that and then as a reward we'd dash over to the window sill and hunt flies for a bit. Then back to self control, then some flies, etc. I explained in detail to the audience about Lad's telling me how superfantastical-uber-cool those flies were, and how the food treats I might offer couldn't hold a candle to the thrill of hunting flies. All made perfect sense. Until the next day, when the newspaper article appeared. The reporter had not made any mention whatsoever of the use of "real life" rewards. The photographer, however, had caught a nice shot of me and Lad enjoying some fly time. The caption read something like, "Trainer Suzanne Clothier rewards Lad with flies for behaving well." Without the context, I think it appeared that I was just too cheap to buy liver treats. (Or maybe I ended up inspiring and misguiding some real cheapskates into trying to get old Bess to sit for a fly.)

It is fascinating to realize that by carefully posing some basic questions, you can get a dog to tell you a lot about what floats his boat. Watch, notice how he responds to his world, what he finds interesting enough to respond to, what makes his eyes light up, where his gaze might fix, or how he tips his nose or cocks an ear.

So what do you use? I'm a huge fan of what I think is the best reward ever. I've used it forever! It's a reward that is omnipresent, endlessly variable, can be brought into play or removed instantly, retains its power over the lifetime of the animal (can be used with young & old alike, firm and infirm, ablebodied or not). This reward can be used safely, anywhere, without disrupting others or disturbing anyone. And at the same time, this reward is a useful barometer of the health and strength of the relationship. This reward also changes, day by day, to become increasingly more sophisticated and specifically tailored to the animal (or other person) so that ultimately, it's just about perfectly customized to that animal's needs, preferences, mood, abilities, understanding and perceptions.

This reward is real, it's readily available, and it's free.

It is, of course, YOU.

More precisely, what you offer in an interaction. The same way we build and maintain (and sometimes repair) friendships with other people -- how we choose to interact with them --- we can also bring depth and intensity and value to our relationships with dogs (and other animals) by how we invest ourselves, truly, wholeheartedly, in the interactions.

I worked with one dog at a seminar who was presented as "cannot be motivated." The dog had plenty of training, knew lots of stuff, but was very lackluster in performance. Not hard to see why, as the handler was a human version of Kansas cornfields - many miles of same old, same old, with nary a bump on the landscape to elicit some interest. "Won't work for food, won't work for praise or toys or anything" was the handler's annoyed pronouncement. I watched the dog for a few moments, noticing that she used her vision to check out her world, following what her eyes noticed with a deep nosed investigation (if allowed). Someone shifted in their chair, and her dark lovely eyes tracked that immediately, followed by her nose lifting to see what the wind could bring by way of information. A leaf tumbled by, and noticing that, she followed it and sniffed. So I engaged her with some conversation, and then made a big production number of removing my hair scrunchy that was holding my ponytail.

Holding it where she could see it, I asked, in a voice filled with wonder and suspense: "Have you ever seen one of these?" The dog's eyes were big and intense and focused as she gazed up at this silly object. She quivered in hopes that I might let her see and sniff this wondrous thing up close. And then I asked her to heel. It was gorgeous, connected, alert, precise heeling that showed how much time her handler had dedicated to teaching her dog well, and how thoroughly the dog understood the exercise. Her reward, of course, was a chance to look at, sniff, and watch me stretch the scrunchy. And then we worked some more. The dog turned in a performance that would earn high scores in any ring. I had fun, she had fun, and then it was time to slip the scrunchy back on my hair, and return the dog to her dumbfounded handler.

I complimented her on this great dog and the training. I asked if she understood that the dog surely could be motivated to work at a very high level with great enthusiasm, provided she found the right rewards that mattered to the dog. After all, the dog had done all that work for me in exchange for a chance to see and sniff a scrunchy, nothing more.

"Yes but . . . you were all interesting and intense and exciting and stuff." All I could do was smile wryly. Indeed. I had invested myself in that conversation with that dog, a chat which incidentally revolved around heeling and a scrunchy and how cool those two things were between a dog and a person having fun.

Ah. Yes but. . .

Try it. Be all interesting and intense and exciting and stuff. Use that reward of Y.O.U. There's nothing on the market that tops it.

I'm telling you - you haven't lived until you've stretched out in fresh sweet hay next to a friendly pig and wrapped yourself around her warm, strong body and dozed off listening to hens cluck and birds singing and the quiet sounds of a barn on a spring afternoon. Those seeking security, grounding and reassurance that all is well with the world on a deep and basic level would find it, I suspect, in the company of this remarkable pig.

When the phone rang that morning a while back, twelve puppies lay sleeping in contented piles at my feet. Snuggled against their littermates, amidst the colorful toys and obstacles, just four weeks old, each pup sleeps wearing their first collar while I watch over them. As I had carefully fitted these collars, I was well aware that this was more than a necessary step in their understanding of what the world will expect of them. It was also what my friend Ginny Palmieri calls the "covenant of the collar", a symbol of my promise to them that I will do all I can as their breeder to set them into the world ready and able to deal with what comes their way.

Into the quiet sighs and contented groans of sleeping pups, the phone rang. It was Jeannie, a woman who 14 years ago had bought a puppy from me - a wonderful puppy named Jersey. Over the years, I've shared the stories of Jersey's puppyhood, adolescence, young adulthood, the move to Hawaii and the quarantine, and the move back to PA, and then back to VT where it had all started. I helped save Jersey from an inaccurate diagnosis of degenerative myelopathy and set her and her family on the right course to having a torn cruciate repaired at age 11 plus. Jersey bounced back and went on to enjoy life pain free. It had been upsetting to see how quickly vets assumed DM and pretty much gave up on an 11 year old dog in fine shape just because she was a German Shepherd. Heartening to see how well she did once given the right treatment.

Just a few weeks before, Jeannie had called to note that it was Jersey's 14th birthday, and she left a message noting with pleasure that her beloved dog had made that important milestone. And now, this morning, Jersey was dead, going on her own terms, in her own way, without much warning. Jeannie and I cried together, both of us knowing that with the close of Jersey's life, huge chapters in our lives were also closed.

As I let the tears come, my gaze fell upon the puppies around me. With a pang, I wondered who I would be and where I would be and how would it be when I got the call or the letter or the email from their families telling me this same news. How long would it be for each of them? I have been extraordinarily lucky as a breeder, and the overwhelming majority of the puppies I've bred lived long lives, so early deaths, tragic deaths, rock me hard. It is as if somehow, there's been a violation of an unspoken but deeply held belief that the dogs I breed will live long and well. And yet... even the deaths of dogs who have lived long, rich lives makes my heart ache. Sometimes it feels as it the tears are rarely far away.

Twelve puppies at my feet. Twelve bundles of joy and delight and pleasure in their very beings. Twelve little souls who have honored me by making me the first stop on their life's journey, by allowing my hands and my heart to be the first to touch them. It is an honor I do not take lightly. And I readily embrace it all, even knowing full well that unless I run out of time sooner than odds might say I will, these fresh lives will someday translate in their own unique way into twelve moments of grief.

Grief being the weight of love, I do my best to honor that weight when it falls on my heart. There is little I can do except to share the grief with those who loved the dog. My gratitude for what each dog has brought into this world is evidenced by just this small thing I have to give: my willingness to be vulnerable, open, unabashed when the time comes to shed tears for a good dog.

Jeannie asked how could I do this with not only my own animals (and so many of them) but also with each and every puppy that I bred. A good question... In the end, it is the fullness of the circle that draws me to it, the seamless flow of life and death. Above all, the mystery of a soul's purpose holds me in thrall. As each pup arrives in this world, as their mother lays trusting me as I hold her baby in my hands, I see a new life, and more. I see the possibilities that lay within each puppy to move some small part of the world in ways I cannot foresee but nonetheless trust and respect as their soul's work.

These pups who start their journey here with me have gone on to shape lives and hearts and minds and even to literally change the world in ways unguessed as they nuzzled hungrily for their first meal. For example, in Vermont, there is a group that has done so much for so many -- Therapy Dogs of VT. Founded in 1990 by Steve Reiman and his two Hawks Hunt German Shepherds, Lily and Jordan, TD of VT now has more than 200 members and serves many facilities from hospitals to nursing & retirement homes, correctional facilities, crisis and community programs. Though Lily and Jordan (Jersey's aunt) have been gone for a while, what they helped Steve set in motion remains a powerful force for good. Therapy Dogs of VT is now statewide.

And so it goes on, the joy, the tears, and ultimately, a world that is never quite the same because one soul touches another. Where these twelve puppies go and what work they do remains to be seen. For Jersey, the tears will fall around the world, as she had many friends and touched many lives. And the ripple moves on even after she has surrendered a body that served her long and well. It is truly an honor to be a part of this process.