I clearly didn’t know what I was doing and decided I might benefit from some training aids. So I loaded Zeb up and took him to a local pet store. We roamed the aisles and I grabbed a few toys, including a squeaky rubber newspaper, which I hoped he’d associate with the real one sitting in the driveway each morning. I also thumbed through a few books and settled on one that was written for owners with older, untrained dogs. While we were walking out of the store, we came across a training session, where other dogs accompanied by their owners listened to an instructor in the center of the circle. “Are you thinking about signing up for obedience classes?” I turned around to see a store employee standing beside me. We talked for a few minutes and she began explaining the many benefits of the class. When she asked specifically about the problems I was having, I explained that I was trying to teach Zeb to fetch the newspaper. She said she couldn’t guarantee he would accomplish that, but with a few training classes he would learn the basic commands that would provide me with a foundation to build upon. Reluctantly I agreed and signed up for the next session, which was the following Tuesday. When we arrived that evening, I was a little anxious as to how Zeb would do in class. He was clearly the oldest student by quite a few years. Most of the others in the class were less than a year old, and some were even puppies. Things went reasonably well until the instructor began the actual teaching, at which point Zeb did everything he could to make the woman question her career choice. When she talked, he barked. When she tried to use a dog cookie as a teaching tool, he engulfed the snack and her arm, almost up to her elbow. When she patted him on the back to get him to sit, he became aroused. When she went back to teaching, he stayed aroused. If I handed Zeb a piece of paper, I have no doubt that he would have carefully folded it into an airplane and tossed it at the teacher as she was talking. Some of the other dogs made progress and were praised accordingly. Sit, heel and lay down were the main commands we focused on. I did the best I could to keep Zeb in line and tried not to let him disrupt the other dogs. Finally the woman announced we had reached the end of that evening’s class. As the other owners were leaving the circle, she pulled me aside and explained that obedience class isn’t for every dog. I had paid for a week of training, but I was too embarrassed to ask for my money back. Zeb never did learn to get the newspapers. It bothered me for a while, but the frustration soon faded. He doesn’t bite. Or chase the mailman. Or run off when I open the door. That’s good enough for me. “Chew on your rock, Zeb,” I yell to him every time I pass by the sliding glass door. From outside, where he’s lying in the dirt, he looks up and wags his tail, as he tosses his beloved piece of granite into the air and repositions it in his big slobbery mouth. He obeys like he understands every word I’m saying. U
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