Читать книгу Marley: A Dog Like No Other - John Grogan - Страница 10

When Marley was not quite six months old, we signed him up for obedience classes. He definitely needed them. Despite his stick- fetching breakthrough on the beach that day, he was proving himself a challenging student – dense, wild, and constantly distracted. We were beginning to figure out that he was not like other dogs. We needed professional help.

Our veterinarian told us about a local dog-training club that offered basic obedience classes. When we went to register Marley, we met the woman who would be teaching our class. She was a stern, no-nonsense dog trainer who believed that there are no bad dogs, only weak-willed and hapless owners.

As Jenny, Marley and I arrived for the first lesson, Marley spotted the other dogs gathering with their owners across the tarmac.

“A party!” he barked. He leaped over us and out of the car. He was off in a tear, his leash dragging behind him. He darted from one dog to the next, sniffing private parts, dribbling pee, and flinging huge wads of spit through the air. Sniff sniff. Dribble dribble. Fling fling. For Marley it was a festival of smells. He stayed just ahead of me as I raced after him. Each time I was nearly upon him, he would scoot a few metres farther away.

I finally got close. Taking a giant leap, I landed hard with both feet on the leash. He stopped with a sudden jerk. For a second, I was convinced I’d broken his neck. He jerked backward, landed on his back, flipped around, and gazed up at me with the serene expression of a kid who has just eaten every last piece of candy in the candy store.

Meanwhile, the instructor was staring at us as if I had thrown off my clothes and danced naked right there on the blacktop. She was not amused.

“Take your place, please,” she said curtly. Jenny and I tugged Marley into position. “You are going to have to decide which of you is going to be the trainer,” she added.

The instructor didn’t understand that we both wanted to participate so each of us could work with him at home. I decided to explain.

“But we—” I began.

“A dog can only answer to one master,” she said, cutting me off.

“But—” I said. This time her glare silenced me. I slunk to the sidelines with my tail between my legs, leaving Master Jenny in command.

This was probably a mistake. Marley was already way stronger than Jenny and knew it. The instructor began her introduction on the importance of establishing dominance over our pets. That’s when Marley spotted the standard poodle on the opposite side of the class. He lunged off, with Jenny in tow.

All the other dogs sat three metres apart, beside their masters. They waited for instructions. Jenny was fighting to plant her feet and bring Marley to a halt.

“Forward ho!” Marley seemed to be telling her. He lumbered on and tugged her across the parking lot in pursuit of hot poodle butt-sniffing action. Jenny looked like a water-skier being towed behind a powerboat. Everyone stared. Some snickered. I covered my eyes.

Marley crashed into the poodle. Everyone waited as he sniffed every inch of her. I imagined it was his way of saying, “Nice to meet you!” Jenny tugged with all of her might, but Marley ignored her. “I’m not done yet,” he seemed to be saying. Finally he finished saying his hellos, and Jenny was able to drag him back into place.

“That, class, is an example of a dog that has been allowed to think he is the alpha male of his pack,” the instructor announced calmly. “Right now, he’s in charge.” Marley agreed by attacking his tail, spinning wildly as his jaws snapped at thin air. In the process he wrapped the leash around Jenny’s ankles until she was fully immobilised. I winced and was thankful that it wasn’t me out there.

The instructor showed the class how to command dogs to sit.

“Sit!” Jenny ordered. Marley jumped on her and put his paws on her shoulders. She pressed his butt to the ground. He rolled over for a belly rub. She tried to tug him into place. He grabbed the leash in his teeth, shaking his head from side to side as if he were wrestling a python.

It was too painful to watch. At one point, I opened my eyes to see Jenny lying on the pavement facedown. Marley stood over her, panting happily. She later told me she was trying to show him the down command.

Class ended, and Jenny and Marley rejoined me. So did the teacher.

“You really need to get control over that animal,” she said with a sneer.

“Well, thank you for that valuable advice. Actually, we signed up just to make the rest of the class laugh.” At least, that’s what I wanted to say. Actually, neither of us breathed a word. We just retreated to the car in humiliation and drove home in silence. The only sound was Marley’s loud, excited panting.

Finally I broke the silence. “He sure loves school!” I said.

The next week Marley and I were back, but this time without Jenny. When I suggested to her that I was probably the closest thing to an alpha dog we were going to find in our home, she gladly relinquished her brief title as master and commander. Before leaving the house, I flipped Marley over on his back, towered over him, and growled in my most intimidating voice, “I’m the boss! You’re not the boss! I’m the boss! Got it, Alpha Dog?” He thumped his tail on the floor and tried to gnaw on my wrists.

The night’s lesson was walking on heel. I was eager to master it. I was tired of fighting Marley every step of every walk. Jenny was, too. Once he took off after a cat and yanked her off her feet, leaving her with bloody knees. It was time he learned to trot by our sides.

I wrestled him to our spot on the tarmac, pulling him back from every dog we passed along the way.

“Class, on the count of three,” the instructor called out. “One… two… three.”

“Marley, heel!” I commanded. As soon as I took my first step, he shot off like a fighter jet from an aircraft carrier. I yanked back hard on the leash. He coughed and gasped as the collar tightened around his airway. He sprang back for an instant, then lunged forward again. I yanked back. He gasped again. We continued like this the entire length of the parking lot. He was coughing and panting. I was grunting and sweating.

“Rein that dog in!” the instructor yelled. I tried with all my might, but the lesson wasn’t sinking in. I thought that Marley might just strangle himself before he figured it out. Meanwhile, the other dogs were prancing along at their owners’ sides.

The instructor had the class line up and try again. Once again, Marley lurched like a maniac across the tarmac. With his eyes bulging, he strangled himself as he went.

“Here,” the instructor said impatiently. “Let me show you.” I handed the leash to her. She tugged Marley around into position. She pulled up on the collar as she ordered him to sit. Sure enough, he sat, eagerly looking up at her.

With a yank of the leash, the instructor set off with him. Almost instantly he barrelled ahead as if he were pulling the lead sled in a dog-sledge race. She corrected hard, pulling him off balance. He stumbled, wheezed, then lunged forward again. It looked like he was going to pull her arm out of its socket. I should have been embarrassed. But I felt an odd sort of satisfaction. She wasn’t having any more success than I was. My classmates snickered, and I beamed with perverse pride. I wanted to yell, “See, my dog is awful for everyone, not just me!”

I had to admit, the scene was pretty hilarious. The two of them reached the end of the parking lot. Then they turned and lurched back towards us.

The instructor scowled. Marley was joyous beyond words. She yanked furiously at the leash. Slobbering with excitement, Marley yanked back harder still. I could tell what he was thinking. “All right! Tug-of-war.”

When Marley saw me, he hit the gas. Filled with near-supernatural speed, he made a dash for me. The instructor broke into a sprint to keep from being pulled off her feet. Marley didn’t stop until he slammed into me with his usual exuberance.

The instructor shot me a look that told me I was in trouble. Marley had made a mockery of her class. He had publicly humiliated her.

The instructor handed the leash back to me. “OK, class, on the count of three…” she said, pretending the whole thing hadn’t even happened.

When the lesson was over, she asked if I could stay after for a minute. “I think your dog is still a little young for structured obedience training,” she explained.

“He’s a handful, isn’t he?” I said. Now that we had shared the same humiliating experience, I felt as though we were friends.

“He’s simply not ready for this,” she said. “He has some growing up to do.”

It was beginning to dawn on me what she was getting at. “Are you trying to tell me—”

“He’s a distraction to the other dogs.”

“—that you’re—”

“He’s just too excitable.”

“—kicking us out of class?”

“You can always bring him back in another six or eight months.”

“So you’re kicking us out?”

“I’ll happily give you a full refund.”

“You’re kicking us out.”

“Yes,” she finally said. “I’m kicking you out.”

Marley lifted his leg and let loose a raging stream of pee, nearly hitting his beloved instructor’s foot.

Sometimes a man needs to get angry to get serious. The instructor had made me angry. I owned a beautiful, purebred Labrador retriever, a proud member of the breed famous for its ability to guide the blind, rescue disaster victims, assist hunters, and pluck fish from big ocean swells, all with calm intelligence. How dare she write him off after just two lessons? OK, he was a bit on the spirited side, but his intentions were all good.

I was going to prove to that insufferable stuffed shirt that she could kick us out but Marley was no quitter. He would show her!

First thing the next morning, Marley was out in the backyard with me. “Nobody kicks the Grogan boys out of obedience school,” I told him. “Untrainable? We’ll see who’s untrainable. Right?” He bounced up and down. “Can we do it, Marley?” He wiggled. “I can’t hear you! Can we do it?” He yelped. “That’s better. Now let’s get to work.”

We started with the sit command, which I had been practising with him since he was a small puppy. He was already quite good at it. I towered over him and gave him my best alpha-dog scowl.

“Sit,” I said in a firm but calm voice. He sat. “Good boy!” I praised.

We repeated the exercise several times. Next we moved to the down command, another one I had been practising with him. He stared intently into my eyes, neck straining forward, anticipating my directive.

I slowly raised my hand in the air and held it there as he waited for the word. With a sharp downward motion, I snapped my fingers, pointed at the ground and said, “Down!” Marley collapsed in a heap, hitting the ground with a thud. He went down with gusto – as if a mortar shell had just exploded behind him.

Jenny, sitting on the porch with her coffee, noticed it, too. “Incoming!” she yelled out.

After several rounds of hit-the-deck, I moved up to the next challenge – come on command. This was a tough one for Marley. The coming part was not the problem; it was waiting in place until we called him. He was so anxious to be plastered against us that he could not sit still while we walked away from him.

“Sit,” I commanded. He faced me, and I fixed my eyes on his. As we stared at each other, I raised my palm, holding it out in front of me like a crossing guard. “Stay,” I said, and took a step backwards. He froze, staring anxiously, waiting for the slightest sign he could join me. On my fourth step backwards, he could take it no longer and broke free, racing up and tumbling against me. I scolded him and tried it again. And again and again.

Each time he allowed me to get a little farther away before charging. Eventually I stood fifteen metres across the yard, with my palm out towards him. I stood and waited. He sat, locked in position, his entire body quaking with anticipation. I could see the nervous energy building in him. He was like a volcano ready to blow. But he stayed. I counted to ten. He did not budge. His eyes froze on me. His muscles bulged. OK, enough torture.

I dropped my hand and yelled, “Marley, come!”

As he catapulted forward, I squatted down and clapped my hands to encourage him. I thought he might go racing willy-nilly across the yard, but he made a beeline straight for me. Perfect! I thought.

“C’mon, boy! C’mon!” I coached. He was barrelling right at me. “Slow it down, boy,” I said. He just kept coming. “Slow down!” He had this vacant, crazed look on his face. It was a one-dog stampede. I had time for one final command. “STOP!” I screamed.

Blam! He plowed into me without breaking stride. I pitched backwards, slamming hard to the ground. When I opened my eyes a few seconds later, he was straddling me with all four paws, lying on my chest and desperately licking my face.

“How did I do, boss?” my proud puppy seemed to be asking.

Technically speaking, he had followed orders exactly. After all, I had failed to mention anything about stopping once he got to me.

“Mission accomplished,” I said with a groan.

Jenny peered out the kitchen window. “I’m off to work,” she shouted. “When you two are done making out, don’t forget to close the windows. It’s supposed to rain this afternoon.” I gave Linebacker Dog a snack and then showered and headed off myself to my job as a newspaper reporter.

When I arrived home that night, Jenny was waiting for me at the front door. I could tell she was upset.

“Go look in the garage,” she said.

I opened the door into the garage, and the first thing I spotted was Marley, lying on his carpet, looking sad.

My mind took a photo of the scene. Marley’s snout and front paws were not right. They were dark brown, not their usual light yellow. It took me a few seconds to figure out that they were covered in dried blood. Then my focus zoomed out and I sucked in my breath. We had thought the garage was indestructible, but Marley had destroyed it. Throw rugs were shredded. Paint was clawed off the concrete walls. The ironing board was tipped over, its fabric cover hanging in ribbons.

Worst of all, the doorway in which I stood looked like it had been attacked with a chipper-shredder. Bits of wood were sprayed in a three-metre semicircle around the door, which had a hole halfway through to the other side. The bottom metre of the doorjamb were missing entirely and nowhere to be found. Blood streaked the walls from where Marley had shredded his paws and muzzle.

“I don’t believe it,” I said, more amazed than angry.

“When I came home for lunch, everything was fine,” Jenny said from behind me. “But I could tell it was getting ready to rain.” After she was back at work, an intense storm had moved through, bringing with it sheets of rain and dazzling flashes of lightning. The thunder was so powerful, you could actually feel it thump against your chest.

While the storm raged, Marley had desperately tried to escape. The storm had sent him into a complete, panic-stricken frenzy. Alone and terrified as the storm came, Marley had decided his best chance at survival was to begin digging his way into the house. When Jenny arrived home a couple of hours later, Marley stood in the middle of the mess he had made.

But it didn’t take long for Marley to forget the whole incident. Back to his old self, he grabbed a chew toy and bounced around us, looking for a little tug-of-war action. I held him still while Jenny sponged the blood off his fur. Then he watched us, tail wagging, as we cleaned up his handiwork.

“You don’t have to look so happy about it.” I scowled and brought him inside for the night.