The Charm of Self-Taught Dogs
By Francis Battista
Like the self-made man, the self-taught dog tends to have a few more warts than his or her "professionally" trained counterpart, but they also tend to be more interesting.
They may look like your average dog who was schooled from puppyhood at all the right behavior classes. Like children of a bygone era, they are taught to be seen and not heard, except, perhaps, when there is some disturbance in the yard that might call for a few polite barks. This type of reasonable, gentlemanly or lady-like behavior is great, but it allows little room for the quirky, charming, and unexpected behavior of the self-taught dog.
Many of them arrive with a fascinating repertoire of talents that hint at how they wound up in the pound or on the street.
Most of the dogs who come to Best Friends have been around the block a time or two. Without the benefit of pre-school, many of them arrive with a fascinating repertoire of talents that hint at how they wound up in the pound or on the street and how they made their way in the world before coming here.
My wife Silva and I have more dogs than I would like to admit in our home at Best Friends. (OK, we have 16.) While all of them know the fundamentals of "sit" and "off," etc., they are not what you'd call well trained. In fact, apart from the basics they are entirely self-taught, and unfortunately, it shows.
On the bright side, I love it.
Jeffrey, for example, is a charming wag with soft eyes and a gentle persistence that inevitably lands him on someone's lap. This largish shepherd mix is also a master escape artist, which is probably how he made it to the Los Angeles pound, from where I adopted him.
We have several dog compounds attached to our house, so we can divide the crew according to size, age, or disposition. Jeffrey defies all boundaries and goes wherever he pleases. The other dogs all give him a free pass, so this works just fine.
Inside the house, we have baby gates to keep dogs in or out of this or that room. Like Jeffrey, Bismarck disdains gates. (Bismarck actually was trained. He was supposed to become a police dog. But that was in Germany, and he was a hopeless student. Plus he only speaks German, so there's no use telling him to "lie down." You have to say "Plotz!")
When Bismarck was younger, he would jump the gates. If I sent him back he wouldn't stay put (even if I said it in German). Now that he's older and can't vault the barriers, he orchestrates a group howl of protest and then watches me with a sheepish grin. He also does this to great effect at about 4 a.m. if he wants to get into the bedroom. I wake up to a chorus of yipping, barking, and howling and open the bedroom door to find the big oaf just standing there waiting to come in. Once I let him in, his accomplices quit the noise and go back to sleep.
The all-time champ of self-taught dogs was Bruno. He didn't expect to be looked after or entertained. He just wanted a lift to a good home. I found him standing in the middle of the road in the small town of Fredonia, Arizona, in 1985. He was a young chocolate brown mutt who looked like a little bear.
As soon as he settled in at home, he began to organize his life into a series of totally original games. His favorite prop was a 5-gallon bucket. I shot some video of him with the bucket, which appeared on America's Funniest Animal Videos. Bruno would start by laying the bucket on its side and barking at it. Then he would roll it with his nose, then stop and bark some more. He would then stand on it with his front paws and roll it backward, like a scene from the circus. And then, for the grand finale, he would offer a few more barks, then toss the bucket up in the air, catch it on his head, and run around the yard looking like the Black Knight from Monty Python and The Holy Grail until he bumped into a tree or fence.
Woody, a young dog from Los Angeles that we were fostering, would bolt through the front door and run up the drive. (It's here at the sanctuary, so that's quite safe.) He wouldn't run off, but it was impossible to catch him, except on his terms. His terms? A ride in the car. As soon as I opened the car door, Woody was out of the trees and into the passenger's seat. Once he was in the car, I could put a lead on him and take him back into the house, but he would not leave the car voluntarily unless we went somewhere first. He had to go for a ride. So, I would start the engine, and Woody's eyes would light up with anticipation. I'd then back up about ten feet and roll forward again to park, open the door, and Woody would saunter back to the front door, delighted with the little trip.
I know. This is all wrong. It's upside down. I'm supposed to be training the dog, not vice versa. But there's worse to come.
Augie is a wonderfully intelligent shaggy dog I found wandering down the highway on a Navajo reservation about 11 years ago. Whenever we have guests for dinner and someone gets up from the table, Augie will wander in, climb onto the vacated chair, and take what he must regard as his place with the tall folks. He doesn't try to eat from the table; he just sits, very pleased to be included in the circle of conversation.
So no, our dogs are not very well-trained, but they are way too smart for me!
