It’s basic obedience, not rocket science.
I’d gotten together with my pal Jones for a round of sporting clays. It’s something we do every summer before the hunting season, and while its effect on our wingshooting is questionable (the theory, of course, is that it will help), the bottom line is that it makes us feel better-prepared.
Which is not unimportant, mind you. To paraphrase the great Yogi Berra, 90 percent of shooting is mental. The other half is physical.
As usual, Jones beat me handily, but I was expecting that. At least I didn’t embarrass myself.
In any event, we were enjoying a beer in the clubhouse (I bought, needless to say) when Jones piped up, “Did I tell you what happened to Zoë and me on the trail a couple weeks ago?”
Zoë is Jones’s yellow Lab. A bit on the small side as Labs go, she’s as happy, friendly and well-behaved a dog as you’ll ever meet. She’s a heck of a hunter, too, although I’d never admit that to Jones. If pushed for an assessment I shrug and say she’s “serviceable.”
Jones invariably goes apoplectic at that but if I gave him my honest opinion it’d put too much slack in the chain I jerk him with.
I replied that he hadn’t told me so Jones went ahead with the story.
“We were walking on the Fox River Trail,” he recounted, “the way we do almost every evening after supper. If I don’t take her she paces around and makes a nuisance of herself all night.
“Anyway, if I have the time, and it’s not too hot, I like to walk about three miles—good for both of us. We turn around at the DePere lock.”
“Where the hotel is, you mean?”
“Exactly,” Jones nodded, sipping from his glass of Spotted Cow. “In fact, the ‘incident,’ as I’ve come to think of it, happened right where the trail skirts the hotel parking lot. We were just sauntering along, minding our own business, when I happened to notice this potato-faced schlub wearing an A.J. Hawk jersey…”
“A.J. Hawk! He was the worst.”
“Well, at least there’s one thing we agree on. Anyway, this guy’s being dragged along by a Rottweiler that’s damn near as big he is.”
“Oh, no…”
“Oh, yes,” said Jones. “They were about 50 feet away, heading in our direction, and the Rott was already locked onto Zoë like a laser beam. I mean, he was giving her the death stare. It was obvious that he wanted to kill her, and let me tell you, this thing was a beast. He weighed 120 pounds if he weighed an ounce, and it was all muscle and bad intention.”
“I don’t like where this is going.”
“No kidding,” Jones said, taking another swallow of beer. “By now the Rott was lunging so hard that it was all the guy could do just to hang on. Then he started stumbling—and the next thing I knew the Rott had literally pulled him to the ground. I have to give the guy credit for not letting go of the lead, because if he had, it would have been all over. I honestly don’t know what I would, or could, have done. It’s not like I was packing, for crying out loud.”
“My God!” I said. “I know Zoë’s OK, so I take it that that’s as far as it went?”
“Well,” Jones replied, “yes and no. I guess I froze for a second or two—sort of the ‘witnessing the train wreck’ syndrome, you know? But then I did a fast 180 and got Zoë the hell out of there. Of course I was mad enough to eat nails, but I stayed reasonably calm and instead of cussing the guy out just called over my shoulder ‘If you can’t control your dog, you don’t belong on the trail.’ You know what he said?”
“I have a pretty good idea.”
“His exact words were, ‘Shut the f–k up.’ A real genius. Hey Mike, could you bring us a couple more beers? A bag of those peanuts would be good, too. Thanks.
“You know,” Jones continued, “I don’t blame the dog. He’d obviously had no socialization and no training, and when you’re dealing with a breed that’s aggressive by nature—unlike the dogs we hunt with—you have to double down on the fundamentals if you expect your dog to be a good canine citizen. It’s basic obedience, not rocket science.”
At this point Jones was starting to get pretty worked up. “I don’t care what kind of dog you have,” he sputtered. “There’s just no excuse for having a dog that fights a lead!”
“It’s like the pro trainers say,” I offered, adopting what I hoped was a soothing tone. “‘You own what you condone.’”
Jones looked at me blankly. “Where do you come up with this stuff?” he asked.
“I have a quote for every doggy occasion.”
“Oh, brother,” he groaned. “Anyway, I saw a perfect example of what you can accomplish with obedience training just a couple days after ‘the incident.’ Zoë and I were on the trail again when along comes a fit-looking guy walking a pair of Dobermans. They’re tall, imposing animals, but they’re completely under control. When we get within maybe 30 feet of them, the guy stops, snaps his fingers—and the Dobies sit, instantly. As we walk past I say ‘I appreciate a well-mannered dog,’ and the guy smiles and says ‘Thanks—allow me to return the compliment.’”
“He hasn’t seen Zoë with a noseful of pheasant scent,” I cracked, unable to resist the dig.
“Up yours,” Jones laughed. “The point is, the guy with the Rott is clueless. He has about as much business owning a high-aggression dog as you or I would owning a wolverine. It’s a tragedy waiting to happen. Thankfully, I’d never seen him on the trail before that night, and I haven’t seen him since. Would you believe I actually considered buying a canister of pepper spray?”
“Might not be a terrible idea,” I conceded.
“My wife said the same thing,” Jones acknowledged, “but I just decided that I’m not ready to go there. It feels too much like surrender—knuckling under to the forces of anarchy. Guess I’ll just have to teach Zoë how to defend herself.”
“Good luck with that,” I laughed. “If Godzilla showed up in your back yard Zoë would trot up to him with a tennis ball in her mouth and try to get him to play.”
“Gotta love Labs,” Jones said.
“I’ll drink to that.”