Page 15 of Scout Takes the Lead
“This is Ferko,” she said, when we got in the house. With the door closed, she let go of his collar and he rushed toward me. “It’s Hungarian for free. Unfortunately he takes that name too literally and we can’t get him to obey anything.”
She shook her head. “I can’t even get dressed in the morning without him barking or nudging me. If I go to the grocery when I come home he’s torn up a sofa cushion or chewed one of my husband’s shoes. I haven’t been to the beauty parlor in six months.”
I leaned down and rubbed behind his ears, and he opened his mouth in a doggy grin. Then he rushed back to Mrs. Somogyi. We sat in the living room on a sofa that had probably once been very expensive, but the cushions were ripped and the ball feet had chew marks. He sprawled on the floor beside her, his head resting on her shoe.
“We have had dogs all our lives. As soon as we had a house, we got our first Vizsla, Katalin. She was an angel and so sweet with our children. She used to run and play with them, and she slept beside our daughter. Then when our kids were grown we got Babetta. My husband and I were still working, so we had a housekeeper. Babetta was with her all day, and with us in the evenings and on the weekends. And she was fine.”
Ferko got up from the floor and nosed her, and she stroked his head. “This boy has been more trouble than Katalin and Babetta combined.”
“I can see a couple of problems,” I said. “First, there are differences between male and female dogs. Males are often more playful, and more protective. Combine that with the Vizsla’s natural tendencies to bond with their owners, and you’ve got the kind of obsessive behavior Ferko is displaying.”
“I knew we should have gotten another female,” Mrs. Somogyi said. “But the breeder only had boys left, and my husband fell in love with Ferko.”
“Well, you have him now, so the key is to help him become the dog he needs to be to live happily with you.”
Ferko finally got tired of being petted and lay back down on the floor, but still very close to his mom. “You said the first problem is that Ferko is a boy. What are the others?”
I tried to phrase my comment gently. Sixty was the new forty, and all that.
“Older pet parents often don’t have the energy to deal with puppies,” I said. “I encourage people over sixty, let’s say, to look for an older dog, one who’s already trained and mellowed. But that doesn’t mean Ferko can’t be trained.”
“What can we do?”
“I’d like to watch you interact with him for a few minutes,” I said. “Does he obey any commands?”
“Sometimes.” She stood up, and Ferko jumped up with her. “Ferko, sit,” she said. Ferko stared up at her.
“Have you trained him with hand signals, too?” I asked. She shook her head.
“We hired trainers for Katalin and Babetta. But you’re the third trainer we’ve tried with Ferko, and both of the others gave up. They said he was too much dog for us and we should return him to the breeder. But we’ve both fallen in love with him.”
“I’m sorry to say that you and your husband are going to have to do the bulk of the training. I can show you what to do, but you have to reinforce it with Ferko.”
I stood up and showed her how to use her hand and her voice to indicate the sit command to Ferko. He obeyed, which meant that the previous trainers had done something with him. I could tell he was a smart boy.
We spent an hour going through the commands Ferko already knew, but wasn’t obeying when his mother gave them. She also hadn’t been reinforcing with treats, so we worked on that as well.
Then we took Ferko out to the fenced-in back yard, which overlooked Hollywood’s South Lake. I threw a high-intensity rubber bone for him, and he raced after it and then brought it back to me, panting eagerly. A sailboat was passing on the Intracoastal, and for a moment I realized what a blessed life I had, living in a tropical paradise, spending time on a beautiful day playing with a dog, and getting paid for it.
Mrs. Somogyi didn’t have the throwing strength, so I suggested she look around the neighborhood for a kid she could hire to play with Ferko. “If you get someone you trust, then they can play in the yard and you can have a few minutes to yourself,” I said.
“The beauty parlor,” she said, with a sigh. I also suggested that once Ferko was better trained, she look into taking him to doggy day care a few hours a day a few times a week. “That will tire him out and help with his socialization,” I said. “Not to mention giving you a break.”
We agreed that I’d come back a week later and continue to work with Ferko. “And you have my cell number,” I said. “If he gets too much for you, give me a call.”
“You’re a life saver, Grace,” she said. She looked down at Ferko, who was sprawled by her side, and I saw the love in her expression. If she could educate him, I was sure he’d be a delightful addition to her family.
As I drove home, I realized how much I had enjoyed the morning, even though Ferko was a handful. The experience reinforced with me that whatever my career path was, it would certainly involve dogs.
I was thinking about Ferko when my cell phone rang, and I answered it without looking at who was calling. “This is Grace,” I said.
“It’s Mercy.” I was so surprised I had to look at the phone to see the caller’s details. Indeed it was Mercedes, my older sister, who had started to go by Mercy when she was a teenager and tired of being teased about her automotive name.
Fortunately I was home by then, and I pulled up in front of my apartment building. “Hi,” I said. “Wow. How are you?”
“I’m good. I was thinking about mom today.”
“Why?”
