by Jenny Galuschka
When my friend Mandy asked me to walk her dog at lunchtimes, I jumped
at the chance. I’d always longed for a dog of my own, and now I was
retired, this would be a useful learning experience. Dylan is a
large, friendly, almost white golden retriever. I had great fun
walking him on the large grassy area called the Milldown, and
chatting to all the dog owners whose dogs he greeted with typical
friendliness.
Dylan was very bright, and
effortlessly picked up parlour
tricks like “roll over”, “give
a
paw” and the even more
challenging “which hand is the
treat in?” But Mandy’s family
had noticed that he was much
slower to co-operate with basic
obedience and good manners.
Mandy was taking him to obedience classes, and now invited me to go
with them. Dylan was very enthusiastic. He would charge into the
village hall, towing Mandy and me behind him, and really enjoyed all
the exercises. He completed them all perfectly in class, but his
behaviour outside of classes remained completely unmodified. In
particular, Mandy was concerned to see that he greeted me with such
energy that I had to brace myself against a door frame to avoid being
knocked over.
I didn’t mind this in the least, but Mandy suggested that I might
like to watch a dog training video that she’d bought for her
family. The trainer linked most doggy misbehaviour to anxiety caused
by believing that the dog was the pack leader, and responsible for
his whole human family. Various techniques were suggested to counter
this idea, and Mandy asked me to
join her in implementing them.
I
was heartily glad not to have an audience! I would go into the house
before our walks, and, ignoring poor Dylan, eat my sandwiches at the
kitchen table, When Dylan gave up seeking my attention, he would flop
onto the floor with a giant sigh. The lady on the video interpreted
this as, “Oh thank goodness; I’m not in charge. What a relief!”
To me it sounded more like, “This woman is completely weird, and
it’s no use talking to her!”
Dylan’s behaviour improved considerably, for whatever reason. I
wasn’t in the least worried about how he might behave when Mandy
asked me to foster him while they were between houses, and renting
somewhere that didn’t allow animals. Little
did I know!
Dylan had reached the age when his sex drive kicked in. This he
displayed with his usual excessive zeal, clamping onto any and every
human we met, whether he was on the lead or not. Trying to disengage
his grip was worse than trying to get a limpet off a rock.
At my request, Mandy held a family conference with her husband, Andy
and her children, Emily and Gavin. It ended in impasse, with the
women voting for castration and the men horrified by the very idea.
Mandy consulted their vet, who assured her that Dylan would be a much
happier dog without his testicles. Andy and Gavin thought, “He
would say that, wouldn’t he? How would he like it?”
I’m not sure what swung the tide in our direction, but I think it
might have something to do with Andy and Mandy coming to take Dylan
for walks at weekends. It really is deeply embarrassing to be towed
along behind a sex-crazed dog.
I will draw a veil over the postoperative period and the horrors of
the plastic cone round poor Dylan’s neck. I’m happy to say that
when Dylan went to his new home with his owners, he was a slightly
calmer dog, He has lived down his puppyhood nickname of “Dylan the
Villain” and is now just a cuddly scamp. My best furry friend.
Dylan and me
