BarkingProse

The next time there was an opening in the therapy dog training class Mom signed me up. She didn’t ask me if I wanted to go, she just told me we were going to do it. I knew it was a waste of time. My heart wasn’t in it and I wasn’t suited for it.

We dutifully went to class two nights a week for what seemed like forever. Following in my own footsteps as in the first class, I passed all the obedience requirements and did manage to stand still long enough for a couple kids to pet me, but I failed the other challenges.

I was supposed to lie on the floor for five minutes while people and other dogs paraded around me and pretend nothing was happening. I had to let two woman pretend to groom me, examine my toes and look into my mouth. It was dreadful.

I didn’t do anything bad, I merely refused to cooperate. I don’t like grooming, my feet are ticklish, my mouth is my own business – thank you very much.

When we arrived at the last class and the final exam, Mom was fretting. I was bored. Then Dave the trainer appeared. I hadn’t seen him for a few months. Needless to say he recognized me and wandered over to ask Mom how I was doing.

In retrospect I wonder if he came on purpose to help Mom with her thinking. He never said I wasn’t suited to be a therapy dog. Instead he started talking about when he was young and his mother wanted him to play the piano. He hated the piano and wanted to play football. He never learned the piano but he was good at football. Then he said something so simple that even I understood. We have to do what is in our nature to be happy. That was it.

I sensed a change in Mom. When it was our turn to be tested she told me, “Do the best you can, Journey. It doesn’t matter if you pass the test.”

Wow, that was a shock. It changed my whole attitude. Suddenly I wanted to do well so I didn’t embarrass Mom or myself. I passed all the tests except for opening my mouth. That was good enough to get me invited back for the level two class. Once again I was voted most improved student. Mom was happy, I was happy.

On the way to the car Mom told me that was my last therapy dog class. I was stunned.

“But I passed the class,” I stammered.

“Yes you did, Journey, and I’m very proud of you,” she said.

“But your heart isn’t in therapy work. You live through your nose. You love to hunt and catch varmints. Your spirit is wild and free and that’s how I want you to live your life.”

I was still trying to take this all in when Mom reminded me of why my name is Journey.

“You have a right to follow your dreams, Journey. And I’ll be right there with you cheering you on.”

The next day Mom signed me up for Nose Work training and I’ve been hunting ever since.

By the time I had completed basic and advanced training, loose leash walking, long distance recall, and playground manners we moved on to other activities.

You won’t believe this but Mom signed us up for a class on how to behave at outdoor restaurants. Dear lord, could it get any worse? About ten people and their dogs would meet at some restaurant with outdoor seating. The people would sit around the table eating lunch and us poor dogs had to hang out UNDER the table and be quiet. The catch phrase for the class was “Seen not heard.” We dogs did it to humor our people but it was SO boring.

By this time I was nearly one year old. That was important because you had to reach a certain age before you could participate in therapy dog training. At first I thought it sounded like fun. We’d go different places and learn not to be afraid of strangers, loud noises or funny equipment like wheel chairs and walkers.

The field trips were the best. We’d meet at a busy intersection and watch the buses rumble by. We learned to ride elevators and go into public restrooms. Somebody always had to push the hand dryer and make it sound like a jet was taking off.

I admit I didn’t like the elevator at first, but I did eventually get used to it as long as I knew there was a cookie waiting for me when the door opened.

The best field trip was when we went to the fire station. The firemen were so nice. They dressed up in their gear and played with us. They turned on their oxygen tanks so we could hear the swoosh. We got to climb onto the fire truck and go into the ambulance. It was very cool. Some of the dogs were scared of the firemen, but I wasn’t. It was all a big wonderful adventure for me.

While I excelled in the field exercises I was a dud back in the classroom. I lacked the one trait essential for a good therapy dog – a calm demeanor. Mom foolishly thought training would help me overcome my nature but boy was she wrong. How can you stand still when a bunch of little kids come running up to you? You’re not supposed to move, just stand there like a statue. Not me! I would wiggle and turn in circles and roll onto my back with my feet in the air. The kids would laugh and we would all end up in trouble with the adults.

The trainer lady told Mom that I was too young and I should try again when the next class started in a few months. I knew this therapy dog thing would never work, but Mom had to come to that realization herself and she wasn’t there yet. It’s a cool story. I’ll tell you how it all came about next time.