Missy Moo came into our lives three weeks ago. She’s a charming, happy little mutt from a kill shelter in West Virginia, brought to NH by a dog rescue group. We think she’s probably shih tzu and poodle, though she’s got a scruffy terrier look and attitude that completely abolishes any idea that she’s a prissy dog.
Smudge, our scrappy little Puerto Rican street dog, who’s been terribly lonely since our Newfie mix passed away over the summer, is besotted. He loves Missy for two reasons: She plays with him constantly. And her terrible manners make him look like canine good citizen of the year.
We’ve taken to calling her Miss(ing) Manners.
And been tempted to purchase earplugs, given Missy’s penchant for near-constant barking. We’ve had many a rescue dog over the years, nearly all of them arriving with behavioral problems prior owners never bothered to address (and probably helped create). We’ve helped nippers and chewers and house messers and barkers all find their inner canine good citizens. We thought we were pretty damned good at it, too. But Missy’s barking was unlike anything we’ve ever experienced. Loud. Screeching. Constant.
So one of our first calls was to Keryl, our dog whisperer extraordinaire and Smudge’s other great love (she brought dog agility into his world and when he sees Keryl he practically explodes with joy).
Keryl diagnosed Missy’s central challenge as reactive barking brought about by the anxiety of having been bounced around and not knowing what to expect, what to be worried about, what’s acceptable and not. So she reacts to everything — every sound, every squirrel, every bird flying past the window. Beneath her cheerful, confident demeanor is a scared and off-balance little mutt.
Keryl’s advice was straightforward and she worked with Missy and me for an hour to get us started:
- Get her attention. When she’s barking up a storm, she doesn’t even notice we exist. We don’t get her attention with raised voice — we get it by happily singing her name.
- Reward her for giving her attention to us instead of what prompted the barking. Missy’s really food-oriented, so a tiny piece of treat does the job.
- Redirect her energy away from the thing that prompted the barking. This usually means running into another room with her following in curiosity, then having her practice sit or touch or stay for a moment, followed by another tasty morsel.
- Be really consistent with the other obedience work so she learns what’s ok and not, and learns we’re in charge so she doesn’t need to be. Reward her best behavior with love, don’t pet and soothe when she’s reactive.
Of course, it’s impossible not to note the parallels between teaching Missy new behaviors and what I also know works with humans in conflict situations. And to extend those lessons into my own life and the Reboot experiment.
It’s more effective to get someone’s attention with a smile than a snarl.
It’s more effective to reward what’s working than punish for what’s not.
Soothing reactivity takes practice, repetition, and commitment. If R and I are mildly reactive to certain of the other’s behaviors, and we’ve built that over 20 years, it’s going to take the full year of our experiment to change habits.
But, damn, it’s not freaking rocket science.
As I type this, Missy is zonked in front of the fireplace, snoozing away instead of balancing precariously on the living room window sills so she can bark at every MacDowell Colony artist who strolls by. It’s almost 9:00 a.m., we’ve been up for 5 hours, and not a single bark has come from that little mouth.
That’s a record. We’ll see if we can get to 10:00. If not, we will tomorrow, or the next day. One redirect at a time.
