
Hershey was the canine love of my life. He came to me back-yard bred and sickly, stubborn and independent, terrified of loud noises but certainly nothing or no one else.
He started out as dog-dog aggressive; when he was eighteen months old and I brought Sweetie Pie home as a puppy, he tore her face off when she went near one of his toys. I immediately recruited a local trainer. We set up a little sting: The trainer sat next to Hershey, her hand on his leash; I sat on his other side, my hand on the innocent ten-week-old Sweetie Pie's leash. Enter the jealously-guarded toy. We set it in front of the ninety-pound Hershey's nose, then coaxed Sweetie over to it. Of course he went for her, fangs slavering -- but Bethany, the marvelous trainer, took him down in the blink of an eye. He yelped, not because it hurt, but to signal his submission.
We set the trap up again. This time, when Sweetie wandered over to Hershey's favorite toy and began to play with it, Hersh looked up at the trainer, looked up at me, and buried his face in my lap while Sweetie played happily. From that instant on, he was a perfect gentleman with her. He had just needed to be informed of our pack's rules. And I was in love.
Hersh learned to heel off-leash and walk past barking dogs without blinking an eye; he retrieved the newspaper and the mail like a pro, whispered on command, and in the end, wasn't quite able to perfect his ability to turn lights on and off, because his crippling arthritis made it difficult to reach the switch. And as for being terrified of loud noises -- well, because I always praised him to the skies every time I turned the vacuum cleaner on (no food bribes, just praise), he eventually decided he got a blast out of walking up to the vacuum cleaner and lying down in front of it until I pushed the vacuum up against him. I guess he enjoyed watching me laugh.
He died in January at the age of 13. I grieve him as I would a person.
I thought perhaps that I was the only person to love a dog so deeply, and feel that love returned. That's until I began to read Patricia McConnell's beautiful, amazing books about her relationships with her dogs -- specifically, a border collie named Luke (who also died at 13).
McConnell is an ethologist (student of animal behavior), and her books are fascinating, educational, and poignant -- not to mention elegantly written. Please, pick up copies of THE OTHER END OF THE LEASH and FOR THE LOVE OF A DOG. And if you have an interest in dog training (or like me, a passion for it), please visit her website, www.patriciamcconnell.com.