The Necessity of Joy

Dog joy, that is.

One of the things about training a performance dog is how deeply it drives this point home.  One of the things about training a performance Beagle is how it shoves this right in your face.

Did you see the photo of Connery last Monday? Oh, look, I'll put the important part up again.

Connery: I am BAWHSOME!

Connery: I am TOTALLY BAWHSOME!

And he was, too! That was the fastest run he's ever clocked.   A week later, there's still a lingering high.

But it wouldn't have happened without the JOY.

Thanks to Connery's attack history (we're not talking dog interaction gone bad, we're talking targeted giant breed charge-and-attack) and his subsequent worries about the world, it's my job to reassure him and instill the JOY.

I do this in agility and rally by instilling anticipation via routine, by liberal use of cookies, and by the timely appearance of the vaunted treat bottle.

This is what, you ask?

Take one Ensure bottle
Hold nose, drink liquid
Wash thoroughly, remove label.
Add a pinch of kibble
Gorilla Glue the lid closed.
Seriously.  GLUE THE LID CLOSED.

It shakes.  It rattles.  It rolls.

IT PLAYS BEAGLE FETCH.

I trained him to the bottle from puppyhood, associating with treats.

Connery: BAWH!  BAWH!  THROW IT!  THROW IT NOW!  GIVE IT!  LET ME TOUCH IT!  I KNOW I CAN OPEN IT!

The necessity of joy is why in the obedience ring, we raised eyebrows because we cavorted between exercises instead of behaving with quiet dignity.    (It's also why Connery's novice obedience legs ran second, first, first, first.  That last being an insurance leg, as it only takes three.)

You want a Beagle?  Give up on the dignity. If you don't, they will wring it out of you anyway.

Every once in a while, I get a reminder of the necessity of joy.  This fall, for instance.

Connery loves tracking.

LOVES it.

But.

This late fall he's struggled with an illness that I haven't, frankly, figured out yet.  I think it's been one of his stealth sinus infections, presenting oddly and then lingering extensively.

He is, after all, a dog of underlying brittleness: all full of exuberance one day, felled by some inexplicable ailment the next.  (That there are subtle autoimmune issues in play here is of no doubt.  That he's lucky to be alive many times over, ditto.)

Anyway, it started to get to him.

Connery: Don't feel so good.  Well, I can fake it!  Look, the bottle!

Connery: Don't feel so good.  Well, I can fake it.  Look the bottle.

Connery: Look the bottle.

It doesn't do to stop training during this time, because paradoxically, it's one of the things that keeps him going.  But seeing him like that makes my heart sink in a way that completely justifies the existence of cliche.

Now here's the tricky part. Connery starts to feel better, but his MOM is all wrapped up in, "Oh crap, am I going to be able to fix it this time, and what if I can't, and–and–!"

Connery: Where's my joy?  Don't wave that bottle at me.  I DON'T BELIEVE YOU.  I suddenly don't believe I know how to track anymore.  AT ALL.

So my past two weeks have been spent recapturing the joy, And seeing the difference it makes to this new tracking discipline of ours, and slapping myself upside the head and going D'OH.

Reality check.

So suddenly, there's a dog in the harness again.

Connery: BAWH YES WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?

Sorry.  He really does do that all-caps thing.

BAWH!