"No"

"All that we are arises with our thoughts.
With our thoughts we make the world."
-The Buddha

Pretty much anyone who uses any amount of positive reinforcement in dog training regularly uses a reward marker to indicate when the dog has performed a desired behavior.  Often this marker is a click from a clicker, or a verbal "yes!"  Many of us were also taught in our early classes to also use a "no reward marker" (NRM) to indicate that the behavior that was offered was not correct and will not be earning a reward.  Most people use "no" or "wrong" or perhaps that familiar "ah AH!!" sound that seems to pierce through all sounds at a training facility.

It seems logical enough, right?  And certainly much better than jerking on a choke chain to convey disapproval with the dog's action.  But are they necessary?

I decided to stop intentionally using NRMs about three years ago, after attending my first ClickerExpo where I learned that there wasn't necessarily strong scientific evidence supporting that they promoted faster learning.  After all, the absence of reinforcement is indication in itself that the behavior is not correct.  By preventing reinforcement for behaviors we don't want, and only rewarding those that we do want, we can effectively communicate the important information to facilitate learning.  Why bother with all the extra words?  In fact, I find that when I cut out most talking and focus that energy on observing and getting timing and mechanics right, my dogs progress much faster than if I am yammering at them.

In addition, I think many people's use of NRMs is more accurately described as positive punishment.  The neutral, calm "no" that our puppy class instructor demonstrated is quickly replaced by an emphatic, shouted "NO!!!"  And frankly I find that ubiquitous "ah AH!!" sound to be so aurally offensive and aversive that I wish I could banish it right along with all shock collars.  These utterances are not trying to provide information; they are meant to stop behavior.

But the real reason I stopped using NRMs is related to the quote above - our thoughts create our world, as do our words.  I strongly believe that the words and language we use shapes our realities, our perceptions, our thoughts, and our emotions as well.  And I absolutely hate the word "No."  I want to live my life with "Yes!"

The thing about negative speech, is that it frames how you begin to perceive and feel about the situation.  If I start telling a dog "no," I can feel my perceptions shift.  I start noticing the "bad" behavior, and not recognizing the good.  I see the dog only as misbehaving.  I get annoyed and frustrated and find myself losing patience.  And I stop being able to effectively teach anything.

Sure, there are alternate NRMs to use that don't sound as bad.  I briefly used "oops" or "uh-oh," but too often my husband would hear that and think something was actually wrong.  Nowadays, if I do let an NRM slip, it is more along the lines of "try again" or "I think you can do that better."  But really, I don't believe that conveys any useful information to the dog - those are simply examples of me being true to my very verbal species and not being able to shut up completely.

So what is a better response?  Recently I watched video of a well-known positive dog trainer working on proofing her dog's performance of a difficult, but silly, trick.  Every time he made a mistake, she cracked up in pure joyous laughter.  And, really, the attempts were pretty funny, but I also thought, what a perfect reaction.  Failure in training is a good thing!  As good as it feels to do things perfect, I am learning to be glad when my dog makes a mistake as it provides an opportunity to better clarify what it is I do want.

Certainly I don't think NRMs are abusive or coercive or unethical - I am hardly going to get on my soapbox about that.  But I do encourage others to see what happens if you don't use them, because when you aren't looking for "no" I suspect you will start to see a lot more "yes."

Climbing

"Training is the difference between what you have and what you want." - Bob Bailey

"Everybody is a genius.  But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will spend its whole life believing it is stupid." - Albert Einstein

I've had these two quotes in my head for a few weeks now.  I agree with both of them.  And yet sometimes I wonder, how do we know if we are trying to teach a fish to climb a tree?  And is that fair to the student?  If you have an absolutely brilliant swimmer, the best little swimmer you could ever hope for, how important is it if they ever climb that tree?  Is it a just a matter of training?  If I was just a better trainer, or worked harder, or was more committed, would I have the world's most amazing arboreal fish?  I began to feel frustrated by the entreaties from more experienced or more accomplished trainers to just keep at it when I hit stumbling blocks, to not lose faith.  If I keep a log book, if I make a training plan, if I write down my goals, if I videotape and review my sessions - if I trained like the pros, well, surely I couldn't fail.  It would be quitting to do otherwise.

Or would it?  Would I be even more unfair if I continue on, urging that fish up that tree day after day?  Who is right?

I wrote these quotes down again yesterday, one above the other as they are here, and I finally noticed something.

"If you JUDGE a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will spend its whole life believing it is stupid."

It does not say, "if you try to TEACH a fish to climb a tree . . ."

Maybe you can train that fish to climb one day.  And maybe it won't be exactly what you envisioned.  Maybe it will be a long process, with a lot of flopping around on the ground, and maybe when your fish makes it to the first branch you decide, well, good for him, and that is pretty amazing and you celebrate that. You celebrate everything you learned, and the fun you had along the way

The problem is if the climbing matters more to you than the fish does.  When you don't see your fish for the beautiful swimmer he is, when you forget the joy you feel watching him circle and dive, when you don't appreciate how very perfect he truly is, that is where you fail him.

Is it quitting if you decide he doesn't need to reach the highest tree-top in his lifetime?  Only you define and decide that.  When you become disappointed, when you get frustrated, when you find yourself wondering why you don't have a regular spider monkey on your hands - that is when I believe we have lost as trainers.

It is up to us what our goals are as trainers.  I believe in having lofty ones sometimes, and I believe in dreams.  As long as we are fair.  And as long as we always remember that the subject and the process matters more than any final product.

Because your fish will climb back down that tree, and you go home together.  You don't go home with the spectators, the classmates, the instructors.  The people telling you to use a different method.  The people telling you to go try a different tree.  The people telling you to get a squirrel next time.  Those people have never seen the way your fish glistens in the waves and the way the light reflects off his scales like a rainbow, and the love you feel for him every time you see that.

You go home with your perfect beautiful fish, who you know is the best swimmer and climber in the entire world. 

"I've already forgotten how horrible that was. . . "

This was a direct quote that I overheard the winner of the Hallucination 100 mile ultramarathon at Run Woodstock say only an hour or so after finishing his 18-hour long run, much of it through pouring rain in the middle of the night.

How do we so quickly forget some types of suffering?  Why do we voluntarily choose to repeat it?  I've joked at endurance events that our brains have a seeming desire to kill us.  Or at least torture us a bit.

 I've had points where I lacked motivation and wondered why I continue to sign up for races.  I've wondered during every race I've ever run why the hell I was doing this to myself.  And after every race, I've immediately started contemplating what I want to do next year.  Maybe I should go longer?  Sign up for more events?  Look for something to add on this season still?

This cognitive process doesn't strike me as a very adaptive feature for our survival.  Shouldn't we remember things that hurt and intentionally avoid them?

Then again, last night I sat looking at our three oldest dogs.  Come November, we will have two eleven-year old dogs and one thirteen year-old dog.  They are all healthy, though starting to show signs of age.  Jade is deaf, and wobbly on his rear legs.  Tristan continues his life-long struggle with bad structure, and gets sore more frequently after exercise.  And my seemingly-perpetually-young Django now seems to be losing his hearing.  It occurred to me that I'm going to lose each of them one day, and I wonder how I can possibly bear it.  And that reality that I will be going through this at least seven times, and probably many more, can terrify me when I think about it.

When our cat Milo died last year, the next morning I emailed a good friend and fellow animal lover to tell her the news.  I couldn't say much, but knowing she had lost beloved cats herself, I asked her "How long is it going to hurt this bad?"  She assured me that the pain would not always be so bad, that it was going to be hard now, but that the happy memories would soon take the place of that hurt, for the most part.  And those memories make everything else worth it.

So why do we push ourselves and seek out some types of challenges, even when they bring unpleasantness or pain?  Is it so we know we can handle worse suffering when it happens, whether physical or mental?  Is it to create our own pain so that we can forget about the other pain that we can't control?  Is it for how good it feels when you stop?

I really don't know.  It is a question that continues to fascinate me.  But maybe it isn't a dysfunction after all.  Maybe it is a gift. Maybe this same feature of our brains that inspires us to do some pretty crazy things as humans (such as running 100 miles all at one time), maybe it also serves a function to give us the capacity to move on after loss.  Because every time we love something, aren't we taking that same risk?  And isn't that risk always worth it?

Grasping

"No matter how much you love something, it is impossible to hold it so tightly that death can not slip it from your grasp.  But you can hold on so tightly that life cannot get through."

-Suzanne Clothier

There has been a lot of loss this year in my circle of friends and acquaintances.  A lot.  And often with particularly tragic circumstances.  I've watched people go through some of my worst nightmares.

My heart has gone out to all the people I know who have suffered these losses.  I've grieved, and extended condolences and support where I could.

And we move on, because that is what you do.

At least I thought I had.  But lately, I've noticed that I haven't had my typical levels of motivation or enthusiasm about many of my favorite things.  I've found myself wanting to do little more than be at home with our little family, curled up with them.  It finally occurred to me that I'm attempting to cling to those things I'm most afraid of losing, and finding myself getting stuck in my attempts to do so.  Instead of always being on the move, I wish could freeze time and sit safely in the presence of my loved ones forever.

But I can't.  None of us can.  All we can do is become paralyzed in our attempts.

I've been attempting to hold on too tightly lately.  Time to let life back in.

Best Laid Plans

June didn't exactly go as planned.

For the past few years, we have enjoyed kicking our summer off with a road trip to CPE agility nationals, combined with some camping along the way.  This year, early on it looked like our annual trip might not happen when we didn't make it in the initial draw due to the large number of entries.  This should have been our first sign.

Happily, the host club added additional rings and accepted more entries, which this time included Django and Maebe.  So we began planning a trip to Altamont, New York for June.  We would take days on either end to visit first Niagara Falls and then Letchworth State Park.  As the days approached, we made sure we were prepared - checking the trailer and vehicle, making sure everything was in running order, that we had all the supplies we needed, our hook-ups all were functioning, etc.

But sometimes all the planning in the world doesn't help.  Here is the short version.  As we were about to pack up, we noticed Tristan squinting his eye shut.  An emergency vet visit later, he had a foreign body removed from the cornea, and had meds to treat the minor ulcer that resulted, so we were still ready to go.  We hooked up the trailer, and the lights and electric brakes went completely crazy.  A very accommodating trailer service place was able to prioritize us and get us functioning again by late afternoon, so we decided to cut out the Niagara Falls leg of the trip, and leave early the next morning around 4 AM.

We made it about 30 miles when dashboard lights began flashing and smoke began pouring from under the hood of our not-very-old vehicle.  We found ourselves on the side of the expressway.  Thankfully, we were at the exit of a good friend who came to get our dogs and me, while a tow truck had Lowell, the vehicle, and the trailer en route to Ann Arbor again before too long.

So, we spent a quiet week at home with all of the dogs - swimming, hiking, mountain and road biking, volunteering, playing "backyard agility," floating on the river, reading, and enjoying the things we often find ourselves too rushed to do.

If I wanted to feel sorry for myself, I could lament the lost money on the entry fees and reservations, and what I predict will still be a costly repair to our vehicle which is still sitting in the shop.  I could feel bad that Django may be too old to go to Nationals next year, or that we might not make the draw next year, or that other circumstances will prevent us getting there.  But, it's just money, and the dogs don't care if they are playing at a big league event or in our back yard - they have fun just the same.

Also in this month, I watched the story unfold as a national agility competitor lost two of her dogs in a terrible car crash.  A fellow triathlete and classmate in our weekly open water swim class was killed by a car while cycling on roads we have ridden on.  People I know dealt with health crises and deaths of beloved pets and family members.

For us, on the other hand, Tristan's eye healed rapidly.  The car (presumably) will be fixed.  We'll camp plenty more this year.  So I can't complain.

Of course, our next major trip planned for this fall is in Colorado.  Sorry, Colorado.  I hope our travel curse of 2012 isn't responsible for your current condition.

The Private Life of Jade

Sometimes when I bike home from lunch, if I come in through the back door, I see him asleep on his dog bed.  He no longer can hear me come in, so I sneak through the computer room and stand watching him resting peacefully for a few minutes, completely unaware that I am there.  Though he is still able, it is somehow no longer worth the effort to get up on the couch, so I know I will always find him here.

I hold still and silent, holding my own breath.  I watch him breathe, see his eyes closed tight, imagine him dreaming of younger days of chasing tennis balls and diving into lakes.

I can’t bring myself to disturb him yet, so I go back through the house and quietly let the younger four dogs out into the yard.  Then I proceed through the kitchen, trying to not make any sudden sounds, but trying to make some noise to alert him.  I softly call out “I’m home, Jade.”

Usually by this time he has sensed my arrival, and is on his feet stretching, welcoming me home as if he’s known all along I was here.  I don’t let on that I know differently. 

We join the others outside.  After he makes the rounds, sometimes, like yesterday, he will be feeling peppy and will take off trotting proudly with a soccer ball that he stole from Maebe, even though nobody steals toys from Maebe.  Or, more often, he will find a good stick to chew on and sprawl out in whatever sunbeam he can find in our shady yard. 

I feel both happy and sad watching him in these moments of private mid-day slumber, my glimpses of life into Jade’s world.  It is peaceful and sweet, and I treasure that he is with us and in good health.  It is also melancholy, reminding me that like all of us, he is aging and his senses aren’t what they used to be, and it often leaves me with a sense of sorrow. 

Maybe he isn’t dreaming of tennis balls and swimming.  Maybe all he has ever asked for is a comfy place to rest until we return each day and a sunbeam to bask in.  Maybe it is our own discomfort with aging, with change, with what we fear, that is making me sad.  Maybe his golden years are restful and complete and he doesn’t spend time wishing for what used to be or dreading what is to come.

Either way, in these moments he is as beautiful and as precious as he has ever been to me. 

ClickerExpo Nashville and Cadence Turns Three!

Wow, April’s been kind of a blur, and I’m so far behind in documenting our adventures that I’m not sure where to begin.  The biggest event of the last month was our third annual trip to ClickerExpo with Cadence and Maebe, this time held in Nashville, TN.  As always, this long weekend was a wonderful experience filled with learning opportunities, meeting interesting new people, and sharing quality time with the two dogs.

This year as always we attended a wide variety of seminars, on everything from protocols for modifying aggression by Ken Ramirez, to training a formal retrieve with Michele Pouliot.  Cadence and Maebe got to work in a couple Learning Labs, and I was thrilled with how well Cadence is able to work in a distracting environment now.  He was a superstar in both the platform training lab and the retrieve lab.  It helped that I had finally succeeded in teaching him a formal retrieve in the couple months preceding the conference so he was a bit of a ringer, but I was proud nonetheless. 

As always you learn so much at ClickerExpo, it makes your head spin.  Too much to write about in one post, though I am sure the gems of wisdom I picked up over the weekend will influence further musings on this blog. 

We opened each morning with a lovely run along the Cumberland River with the dogs, and a nice multi-purpose trail just a few miles from the hotel. 

And, this year at ClickerExpo we had even more reason to celebrate, as we were there during my “puppy” Cadence’s third birthday.  Three years of being hopelessly smitten for a furry black and white Noodle.  I joke that next time I need to pick the ugliest, plainest, most boring looking dog I can find so I stand half a chance of not being totally wrapped around his little paw every time I look at him.  I was doomed from the start . . .