Behavior Modification: People and Dogs (101)

Here is the way it began:

Molly finishes eating her dinner, and goes to her water dish. It is empty. She looks at me. I get up, fill the dish, set it down in front of her. She drinks her fill. Nonverbal communication, check.

Molly goes to the back door, touches the knob with her nose, looks at me. I get it. I get up, open the door, she goes out. Mission accomplished.

She brings me her ball. I am concentrating on the crossword puzzle. She sits quietly patient. She whines. I don't hear her. She barks one time, shrill enough to get my attention. Hey! Pick it up! Let's have some action here! I can't wait all day! Finally, I throw the ball, beginning the game that lasts for a while until she tires. She is a very strong dog and doesn't tire easily. When she does, she sets the ball down where it is within her reach and takes a nap. The day has begun.

Once, when I had my left elbow on the table, she stuck the ball up into my armpit. Imagine looking up from your puzzle and finding a ball stuffed under your arm and you weren't even aware that the game had started. Wake up!

We wake up at 3 a.m. I get up and go to the bathroom. Molly opens one eye. If I return directly, she doesn't move. If I take two steps towards the kitchen for a drink, she is at my side by the third step. Her radar is working. She never misses.

Although many toys have been provided for her, she keeps the amount down to about three. The others are either buried, eaten, lost, or otherwise indisposed. Shake the peanut jar, and she will drop what she is doing and stand at the ready. I tell her "Go long." And, she backs up for the high fly. I tell her, "Left field," and before I get it out of my mouth, there she is, to the left. Then she makes a beeline for right field because she knows the next peanut hit will be there, and she gets ready for "Line Drive!" wherein the missile goes straight towards her snout and she snaps it up and gives me a look that says, Is that all you got?

For some reason, she refuses to fetch her leash, even if I ask her, "Do you want to go for a ride?" Yes, she wants to go for a ride, and yes, she will stand still to attach the leash, but she will be damned if she will fetch it; get it yourself, is her attitude.

"Molly, do you want to watch the rabbits?" makes her run to the picture window and look outside. There are lots of rabbits, who if close, evoke the border collie Crouch and Stare. The rabbits somehow realize they are in the target sights and they hold really still, even though Molly is behind a glass window -- they seem to know or feel the eyes upon them. Seeing the coyotes makes her very nervous. She goes a bit haywire and doesn't calm down until a period of time passes. She wants no part of them, thank goodness.

But today was a little scary. She had been outside for a couple of hours while I worked on the income tax return. Needing a break, I went out on the patio where she greeted me. It is getting a little warm here in Arizona, and I looked at her and I wondered whether she would like to play in her washtub. I just thought that thought without glancing at the tub. She was looking at me and she immediately ran to the washtub, then to the end of the hose, and then looked back at me. I thought, Now she is reading my mind. This is peculiar, like Alice in Wonderland. What next?

Surely, the dog can't be anticipating my thoughts...can she? How could this be possible? She usually doesn't play in her washtub until late afternoon... this was before lunch, so there was no precedent as to time of day... Maybe it's like when horses learn to count.

I don't know... but I sure am impressed.

Aloha, Matilda

I think my 1995 IBM clone computer is failing in health. It doesn't want to turn off, and it will not turn off -- repeat, will not turn off -- unless you give it a breathing space of about five minutes to grasp the concept. Then it doesn't want to turn ON, until it has extolled the Powers That Be to gird up its loins, get the AC flowing, check its parameters (or whatever it does), and stand at the ready. Or almost ready. Ready in a minute or so. Ready pretty soon. What's the hurry?

Waiting for Matilda to respond is kind of like the fairy tale Rapunzel. You can emote, "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, Let down your golden hair," and wait for her to come alive for you... until you wonder whether Rapunzel has eloped with the pizza delivery man. When the hair does fall down it doesn't seem as bushy as before. Is Rapunzel out cavorting at the marketplace and not paying any attention to business? Does anyone besides me wonder what is going on inside of the box? (Remember HAL? Be careful...)

Give the old girl credit, though, once she survives all the processes, she does a credible job, only occasionally acting stubborn or losing the place, and only attributable to her perhaps 50% of the time, the other 50% my fault; after all, I am no spring chicken either. Maybe we just suit each other. Heaven forbid that some young person should sit down and try to coerce anything out of Matilda the Rapunzel, she who waltzes to her own tune. If it became a matter of Wills, my money is on the machine, not the kid. After all, Matilda has survived neglect, power surges, eight years of Republicans, moving back and forth following the sun, and the rebuff of being replaced twice. It's a wonder she even responds at all.

In any event, it will be like saying goodbye to an old friend to abandon it. How can you young people blindly pitch your present devices for the siren calls of the newest techie marvels? Why I don't even like to trade in my 20 year old used car without a teary look back at the lot, where it sits disconsolately getting its tires kicked, wretchedly waiting to see if its new owner will keep the oil filled. Sob! That's the car that got me to the hospital on time, beating out the stork, the car that took me on the vacation where I fell in love with the mountains, the car the kids used to learn to drive... I understand why so many old cars (in the South, where I grew up) wind up in the back yards becoming space ships for the young 'uns or coops for the chickens, rusting away in peace, like in a nursing home. Do you think that rusting hurts steel more than pride? and how did a car get into this eulogy for Matilda, anyway?

Make way for progress. Youall write if you get work.

San Jose is West of Here...

And it is too far to walk unless you are into that sort of thing, which I am not, just like I am not into E-mail. So to respond to those tons of E-mails inquiring about the book, The Last Laugh, (both of you), I am forced to admit that The Last Laugh was a fantasy, too.

There were a couple of realities in the midst of the fantasies. Molly the dog is real as she appears in the homeless scene. And believe it or not, the handsome Prince was real in the out-of-this-world fantasy. Although handsome Princes can cause heartbreaks, I hope that most of you will someday meet up with one. For a while, life will be different than you ever thought it could be. For a while, you will walk on air. For a while, you will feel that quickening of heartbeat when you think about the two of you. It is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all -- just as soon as you recover from the pain of rejection.

However, speaking about retribution, which we hope does not come after rejection, I do know how to cure the feeling of emptiness, and it is a four letter word. Now, before you stop reading because of your high standards (you are still reading this, aren't you?) let me rush to state that four letter words have been given a bum rap. Of course, there are vulgarities amongst them, just like some of our bankers, lawyers, and politicians are crooks. Perhaps the percentage (some) is understated.

However again, just think of all of the good four letter words we use every day without a hint of bad: like love, kiss, cash, kind, fair, shop! Play, life, pink, joke, Visa, tree, good, hope, cure, ease, fern, lace, warm, lake, snow, bean, idea (there's one for you, a four letter word with three syllables) -- but the finest of these is, WORK.

Work is a holy privilege. Are you mourning the loss of anything dear? A person, a job, a keepsake, a romance, a reputation? Work is the answer. Not all work entails performing something for someone else for pay. Work includes studying, thinking, sharing, cleaning, helping, practicing, planting, learning, and forgetting yourself and taking arms against a sea of troubles (thanks, Mr. Shakespeare). Work hard enough, and there won't be any room in your life for regrets or revenge, and you just may hit on something that will make the rest of your life just what you want it to be. Good luck!

Do you know the way to San Jose?

Sure, I have fantasies. As a matter of fact, I have two favorites, both of which revolve around where I might live at the time. Here you go.

The first one I call my down-to-earth exercise, in which I imagine myself as a homeless person. For a long time, my sleeping arrangements were a tarpaulin and a blanket, but somehow lately I've accumulated a refrigerator box. Don’t ask me how I came to have a refrigerator box; it was just there, and I was busily moving into it, dragging my tarpaulin and blanket, trying to adjust the tarp in order to keep out the cold wind and freezing rain. It’s amazing how many different ways that tarp can be arranged: underneath, on top of, strung from a tree, folded into an envelope and held in place with clothespins. All ways that are designed with a specific purpose—protection against the elements.

I also have, thank goodness, a down comforter, because I usually enjoy this feeling of snugness against all odds. Somehow, I am bathed in comfort inside my abode. Molly, the dog, appears to help, and usually gets in the way.

There aren’t any other homeless people around to try to confiscate my warm box; it is mine without a struggle. But if bad guys WERE to appear, I am sure Molly would bark fiercely and scare them off, then turn around three times and plop down beside me to help keep me warm. From that moment, I relax and sleep.

I use the first person when I write about this skit—I, Me. After all, a simple peasant girl doesn’t care if people know about how she thinks or feels.

My other fantasy? The magical out-of-this-world one? Well. There is this place, halfway up the mountain that can only be reached by a devious path, or several devious paths, and the entry to that wondrous place is behind a waterfall. Then, there is a short dark tunnel (with a light at the end of it -- of course you silly goose) and it opens up into a large cavern with a skylight in the ceiling to admit the sunshine and starlight and moonbeams, whichever. In the center of the great room is a hearth with a fire surrounded by large stones. The entire room is carved from an old gold mine—quartz and gold and silver veins circle about, plus beautiful gemstones gleam in the sides, reflecting the light from above and from the fire glow below. The normal cave temperature of 55°F is modified to 72° because of circulating thermal waters beneath the surface, creating a slight waft of breeze throughout the structure. There is a pool located towards the rear of the cave where a relaxing bath of mineral water eases the strain of walking upright.

I must interject here that this place must be described in the third person, by she who abides there. Because the she-person is beautiful, lithe, intelligent, caring, close to perfection; this story would really be science fiction if it were an aspiration, not an inspiration. What does this ultimate lady do for a living? Well, she is like a physician, healing people with natural remedies. She is like a judge, meting out advice to those who ask for her opinion. She is an accomplished dancer, almost flying, defying gravity, in her movements, with ne’er a hint of clumsiness. She can sing the birds out of the trees. She thinks wondrous thoughts. God, what a woman she is! Twenty-five years old. Hardly ever aging. Brilliant red hair, naturally curly. 38-25-36.

My alter ego is not so strong that I could even remotely be this person…denial, denial.

Her sleeping arrangements? There is an alcove up a flight of five stairs, entered from the main room, just large enough for a Tempurpedic bed. How did that big bed get there, halfway up a mountain by a devious path, through a narrow dark tunnel? (Didn’t I mention in the beginning that this was a magical fantasy? By definition, fantasies need have no resemblance to reality.) (But I think, the bed came from the same place as the refrigerator box.)

There is another opening onto a terrace that looks out toward the sea. An enormous city is far, far, away. A forest lies between the mountain and the city and all types of tame animals live there in peace and harmony. On the terrace are many containers with lush plants, melons, beans, squash, herbs and fragrant flowers. Grape vines and cherry and peach trees drape from the overhang above. I think She is a vegetarian, although She does enjoy a smoked fish occasionally, along with a loaf of fresh baked bread from her ovens and a glass of red wine from her vineyard, and cheeses aged and stored back in the cave at the proper temperature, made from the essences of her herds of goats and cows that graze contentedly in the meadows below.

Have you been waiting for the handsome prince? Here he comes. Irish. Riding a jet black steed named Homer, housed in a stable at the base of the mountain filled with shiny straw and fed with the finest alfalfa hay, cared for by a young lad who brushes him down and massages him with DMSO to take away any slight annoyance he might have. The prince rides in, tosses the reins to the stable keeper, rushes up the mountain, enters into the great room, and takes the woman into his arms. Ecstasy. Strangely enough, Molly the dog never appears in this venue. Would it be because the relationship between the man and the woman is complete?

I’m not going to tell you any more of the fantasy. You have an imagination, carry on yourself. But, there are three possible endings to the story:

Ending Number One: They live happily ever after and have lots of children who go out into the world and end up as the Dr. Sweitzers, the Ghandis, the Mother Teresas, the Winston Churchills, plus many famous, successful Jewish comedians and political satirists.

Ending Number Two: The handsome Prince (whose name was Stupid) got tired of all of the perfection and decided to stay in the city and sample the joys of what he found there. He exited so fast that Homer (his steed, pay attention) left skid marks. But Homer didn’t take to being tied up outside the barber shop so often, and ran away to return to the stable with the shiny straw bed plus the abundance of care. He earned his keep plowing the wheat fields and basking in the feeling of being worthwhile without having to put up with being spurred on by the handsome prince. The She-person did finally recover from the shock of Paradise Lost and lived on for a long time, eventually becoming a writer.

Ending Number Three: The She-person gets even.

I can’t tell you any more because the story called The Last Laugh about how she evens the score has been sold to a famous textbook publisher and will sell for $19.95 in paperback in the year 2012 around Christmas time. Many who have been dumped, both males and females, have already placed their advance orders. (E-mail me; I might let you in.)

"What’s that you say, Dr. Leibermann? My hour is up? Yes, Sol, I will see you again next week, same time. Sibling rivalry? OK. Say hello to Aunt Rebecca for me…”