Herding Immersion Therapy -- Jubilee
I got to Terri's about 6 pm on Friday. I hopped out of the car, let Jubilee out of the backseat, and within 10 minutes, we were chasing sheep in the round pen. Jubilee was excited to be there, in close, and got at least one mouthful of sheep. But she did widen up when I asked her to and stopped and came to me when I let her pin the sheep up against the fence and told her, "That'll do, lie down."
We took a short break with her and moved to a 100-foot square pen and worked with a bit more room. She worked fast and still too close. She circles religiously, me and the stock. It's a GSD herding trait, and as long as she's keeping her distance, I can move with the stock swirling about my feet and the dog swirling about me and the sheep. We did a small AHBA herding pattern--between a panel and the outside fence, between two panels set up like gates, between another panel and the outside fence, in both directions. Then we quit, fairly happy. No train wrecks, some control, a good stop at the end.
Jubilee herds with a natural understanding of the sheep and a gleeful predator's intensity. She is learning that I am there to help her with her hunt, and she is coming to trust me and respect me and to consider me as the leading partner in this hunting venture. The way this continues away from the sheep is rewarding--I am her person, she listens when she doesn't always want to, she is coming to trust my view of the big picture and so is obeying me on faith when I say to hop in the truck, to get in the crate, to come away from the sheep behind the fence. This choice of obedience is what I want--not a recall based on belief in cookie in pocket or ball in hand. Not based on fear of punishment or on trickery that I had a ball, didn't I?
Don't get me wrong, I'll use cookies and toys to teach the meaning of the word. But a cookie isn't going to get a dog to call off fleeing deer or running sheep. An off-leash dog needs something greater--sometimes that can be achieved by sheer repetition and muscle memory of repeated response to that spoken request to come, but all too often, in the adrenaline of the moment, muscle memory isn't going to cut it. Then you need something more--your dog's faith in you as leader, trust in your judgment, trust in your good will.
I've usually had that faith just from raising a dog--love and trust and just pleasure in my company. But Jubilee, although mine from birth, has always had a more cynical perspective.
Show me, she would say with body language and dubious looks, why you are relevant. Don't pet me, don't interfere with me--I don't want your cookies, I don't want your words. And so, I had a dog who just barely liked me, saw little value to my existence, doubted my use to her. I wouldn't let her stalk the feline prey that lived in the house, wouldn't help her hunt them, and would instead yell and bluster when she had one picked out for the kill. And every time I threw this ball thing, I seemed to want it back. She'd bring it back, lie down with it in front of me, guarding and cowering a bit as I reached for it, but the throw, the thrill of the chase were enough pay-off. She'd bring it back again. Praise was irrelevant, touching her was annoying.
What was I going to do with this dog? I had the drive to work with--but to her, me reaching for the ball was an act of dominance--looming over her and taking her prize away. She was conflicted and nothing I did made her happy.
Until I brought her to sheep.
We took a short break with her and moved to a 100-foot square pen and worked with a bit more room. She worked fast and still too close. She circles religiously, me and the stock. It's a GSD herding trait, and as long as she's keeping her distance, I can move with the stock swirling about my feet and the dog swirling about me and the sheep. We did a small AHBA herding pattern--between a panel and the outside fence, between two panels set up like gates, between another panel and the outside fence, in both directions. Then we quit, fairly happy. No train wrecks, some control, a good stop at the end.
Jubilee herds with a natural understanding of the sheep and a gleeful predator's intensity. She is learning that I am there to help her with her hunt, and she is coming to trust me and respect me and to consider me as the leading partner in this hunting venture. The way this continues away from the sheep is rewarding--I am her person, she listens when she doesn't always want to, she is coming to trust my view of the big picture and so is obeying me on faith when I say to hop in the truck, to get in the crate, to come away from the sheep behind the fence. This choice of obedience is what I want--not a recall based on belief in cookie in pocket or ball in hand. Not based on fear of punishment or on trickery that I had a ball, didn't I?
Don't get me wrong, I'll use cookies and toys to teach the meaning of the word. But a cookie isn't going to get a dog to call off fleeing deer or running sheep. An off-leash dog needs something greater--sometimes that can be achieved by sheer repetition and muscle memory of repeated response to that spoken request to come, but all too often, in the adrenaline of the moment, muscle memory isn't going to cut it. Then you need something more--your dog's faith in you as leader, trust in your judgment, trust in your good will.
I've usually had that faith just from raising a dog--love and trust and just pleasure in my company. But Jubilee, although mine from birth, has always had a more cynical perspective.
Show me, she would say with body language and dubious looks, why you are relevant. Don't pet me, don't interfere with me--I don't want your cookies, I don't want your words. And so, I had a dog who just barely liked me, saw little value to my existence, doubted my use to her. I wouldn't let her stalk the feline prey that lived in the house, wouldn't help her hunt them, and would instead yell and bluster when she had one picked out for the kill. And every time I threw this ball thing, I seemed to want it back. She'd bring it back, lie down with it in front of me, guarding and cowering a bit as I reached for it, but the throw, the thrill of the chase were enough pay-off. She'd bring it back again. Praise was irrelevant, touching her was annoying.
What was I going to do with this dog? I had the drive to work with--but to her, me reaching for the ball was an act of dominance--looming over her and taking her prize away. She was conflicted and nothing I did made her happy.
Until I brought her to sheep.