Biology Reference
In-Depth Information
I hadn't seen Nancy much since, but I started to remember as I pulled into the drive and
read the black bumper sticker on her pickup: “Gut Deer?” modeled after the “Got Milk?”
campaign. Her hair was still copper, her dark chestnut eyes still surrounded by smile wrinkles.
She wore camouflage pants.
I had e-mailed Nancy in desperation, remembering her sense of humor and practicality. I
needed both. Sure, she said, come on out to Camp Hook. Bring the dog. She was competent
and relaxed; I was edgy and talkative. Solo, more obnoxious than any four-month-old Ger-
man shepherd should be, was hackled and humpbacked, wild-eyed and ungainly. From time
to time, he surged toward the kennels, a dark hybrid of colt and Tasmanian devil. He would
snarl and bounce off the cyclone fence. I bounced off the lawn chair, wrestling Bil-Jac dog
treats out of my fanny pack, trying to distract him and minimize the behavior that Nancy
was witnessing. “Solo? Solo? Watch me! Gooood dog!” I funneled liver into his mouth.
“Stop chattering at him,” Nancy said. “And stop giving him so many treats. You're making
him into a wuss.” My hand froze in mid-dive. “He's just a jackass,” she said. “What do you
want to do with him?”
And with that simple question, my weird dog world started righting itself. By “What do
you want to do with him?” Nancy didn't mean endless rounds of dog counseling and dog
tranqs, creating a sedated and submissive shepherd who needed an occasional cautionary Dog
Whisperer “hisst” with an index finger held up to keep him in line. Nor did she mean that
I could click-and-treat this dog into executing perfect obedience routines. That didn't work
with him; besides, I was bored with the obedience ring. Nor did she mean that Solo was cap-
able of becoming the quintessential park dog who would allow me to sit on a bench with
other tranquil owners, gossiping, watching our dogs romp and bark into the sunset.
She meant: What would you like this dog to do?
I had no idea. I wanted him to be so busy that he didn't have time to do what he was
doing in front of Nancy. I wanted him to have a job, if possible. Not a pretend job that would
simply exercise out his little heart of darkness. Probably not a job as a therapy dog in a nurs-
ing home, because of his rhino ways. I wanted his work to have meaning, as I was constantly
struggling to find meaning in my own work.
Nancy didn't indulge my angst for long. “Stop thinking so much,” she said. “That's part of
your problem.”
She ordered me to leave Solo alone. I pulled my hands away from the greasy treat bag
and put them at my sides. I turned my gaze away from Solo's evilness. Within a couple of
minutes, he came over and flopped in the shade. Being bad wasn't as interesting if I weren't
reacting.
Nancy and I talked, running down my options. She taught everything from housebreak-
ing to bite-breaking to obedience and trailing. Training Solo for search and rescue wasn't
