Читать книгу The Dog Listener: Learning the Language of your Best Friend - Monty Roberts, Jan Fennell - Страница 13

A few weeks after Khan’s death, I popped into a local animal sanctuary. I had gone there to see the boss, a close friend, but my visit had nothing to do with dogs. It was about going to the theatre, if memory serves me well. My friend was busy so, while I waited, I decided to take a walk around the sanctuary. As I did so, I came across one of the most pathetic sights I’ve seen in my life. Inside one of the blocks there was this thin, pathetic little Jack Russell. I was aware of their reputation for being snappy and aggressive ankle biters, and had never particularly warmed to the breed. But it was impossible not to be drawn to this poor creature. He was trembling, and not just because it was winter and he was cold; I could see the fear in his eyes.

I soon learned his heartbreaking background. He had been discovered abandoned, tied to a concrete block by a piece of string. He had not eaten for days and was emaciated. If he had not been taken in by the sanctuary he would have been dead by now. He was clearly a badly damaged dog. As I spoke to the kennel girl who was looking after him, she told me he kept running off. They were also worried that he might bite. Finding a new dog had been the last thing on my mind as I had driven over there. Nevertheless, I drove back with a new addition to the family shivering in the back seat. I had decided to take him in.

I soon named him Barmie, for no other reason than the fact that he was, well, a little bit barmy, mad. When I got him back home, he sat under my kitchen table. Every time I walked past him he growled. All I could feel was sympathy. It wasn’t aggression I was seeing, it was nothing but sheer terror; I knew I’d be petrified if someone had treated me the way he had been.

I hadn’t taken Barmie in as an experiment, but I was soon thinking that he was going to provide me with a great opportunity. I had so far been working with dogs that were comparatively well adjusted – animals that were used to always being treated kindly. Here I had one who had known nothing but bad treatment. Over the coming weeks, Barmie would provide me with the chance to test the knowledge I had been gaining so fast with my own dogs, to put all the pieces together. In return I hoped I would have the opportunity to help this troubled little dog get over his past.

By now a golden rule had begun to emerge: whatever it was that the traditional methods of training recommended, I needed to do the opposite. So I resisted the temptation to throw myself at Barmie, to shower him with love and affection. He was such a vulnerable creature it was almost impossible at times. There were days when I just wanted to cuddle him and tell him he was all right. But instead I decided not to invade his space and just to leave him alone. So he just sat there under the kitchen table glaring. And I just carried on around the house as normal.