Page 14 of Scout Takes the Lead
“Let me get some stats on you,” Frank said. “Come on over to the scales.” He wrote down my weight, and had me sit at one of those machines that measures your blood pressure, your body fat and so on.
When I stood up, he pulled out a tape measure.
“Raise your arms.”
I felt my adrenaline rise. “Can we skip that part?” He raised an eyebrow, but said, “Sure. I can estimate your numbers. But if you want to track your progress you’ll have to have someone take real measurements.”
“I’m good for now.” I could feel my anxiety level rising and even though Frank was a nice guy with the best intentions, I didn’t want him to touch me.
We finished the paperwork. “You want to get in a workout now?”
I shook my head. “I’m more of a late-night guy,” I said. “I’ll come back.”
As soon as I got out of the gym I took off at a jog back to the house. It was a quick run, but it was enough to work off the anxiety I’d felt, and having Scout welcome me as if he thought I’d abandoned him helped, too. Small steps, I thought. Small steps.
8: Training Dogs: Grace
Before the next training session, I downloaded some materials on how to train a service dog. I skipped through the parts about dogs for the hearing-impaired or the vision-impaired. That kind of need wasn’t Alex’s problem. Even the material about psychiatric service dogs didn’t seem relevant. I didn’t think Alex needed Scout to enter a dark room and turn on a light for him.
I hadn’t seen Alex exhibit any repetitive behaviors. I wondered if Scout was supposed to remind him to take his medication. But there were alarms on the phone for that.
Alex had said he got jittery around loud noises and had trouble sleeping. The information I read said that therapy dogs could also be used to relieve stress and bring comfort to victims of traumatic events or disasters. That sounded more like what Alex needed. But how could I help him train Scout for that?
The basics were the kind of thing we did in class anyway—-training dogs to let their parents know when they needed to go out, for example. Teach the dog to focus on the handler and ignore distractions. Scout was getting some of that in the class already, especially with Cheyenne around. If he could ignore his rambunctious littermate, he was on a good path.
The last one was more intriguing. The idea was to socialize the dog with the objective of having them remain on task in the presence of unfamiliar people, places, sights, sounds, scents, and other animals. That was something I could talk to Alex about, and perhaps help him with outside of the classroom.
When I talked to Becca that night and explained what I wanted to do, she said, “Are you just doing this so you can have an excuse to see him?”
“He seems like a sweet guy, just kind of lost,” I said. “And I like Scout a lot. I want to help them bond.”
“I don’t want you to get your heart broken again,” Becca said. “But working with the two of them could be good practice for you on how to use animals in therapy. And speaking of which, Navajo is getting really in tune with my moods when I’m writing. When I’m happy he sleeps cuddled up with Henry, but if I’m having trouble with a poem he comes over to sit in my lap.”
“That’s sweet. But make sure you’re not using him as a distraction. Can you actually write with him there?”
“I kind of talk to him,” Becca said. “I read the poem out and thump the rhythm into his belly. He seems to like that, and by the time he’s ready to jump down I’m back in my head and I can keep going.”
“That’s excellent. And Henry sleeps through it?”
“You know Henry. He’s all about food. If I go anywhere near the kitchen he’s right there. Navajo just wants love.”
Every dog has a personality, I thought, after I hung up. His or her own unique motivations. What was Scout’s? Food, love, service?
Monday morning I had to drive over to the Lakes neighborhood in Hollywood, where I had a very wealthy client with a very difficult dog. The house was beautiful, long and low, hugging the shoreline of South Lake, with a dock out back where the owners kept a sailboat.
Mr. and Mrs. Somogyi had emigrated to the United States in the 1960s. They were university students during the Hungarian Revolution, and when the Soviet Union quashed their fight, they had to leave. Both were engineers, and Mr. Somogyi had invented something to do with push-button phones, which enabled them to live well.
Their problem was with Ferko, their Vizsla. He was a year old and almost completely unmanageable.
The Vizsla was a red-coated hunting dog who needed a lot of exercise and was also a sponge for human companionship. They needed a lot of physical and mental stimulation, which I thought the Somogyis were too old to provide.
I had been referred to them by one of my other training clients who lived nearby. I showed up at the house and Mrs. Somogyi opened the door, one hand on the collar of a beautiful dog with long silky ears that framed a sensitive and loving facial expression.
She was probably in her early sixties, with blonde hair showing dark roots. “No, Ferko!” she said. “Sit! Stay!” Ferko ignored her, trying to stick his nose to me, and she had to tug the dog backwards to let me in.
Poor Mrs. Somogyi looked worn out and it was only nine in the morning. She had bags under her eyes, and her lipstick had been haphazardly applied. She wore a beautiful silk dress, though, and a strand of pearls around her neck.
I felt underdressed in my T-shirt and shorts. But I was there to work with her dog, not to impress her with my attire. At least my blonde ponytail was neat, and I’d worn my favorite pendant, of a shaggy dog at attention.
