“Guys like us, that work on ranches, are the loneliest guys in the world.” – John Steinbeck

Long before our current era, I lived in a post-truth household. An alternate reality.

A couple adopts a certain breed of dog one of them nagged the other for, & that dog adores the one who was reluctant. That’s poetic justice for both people. 

While meeting the foster mom, Griffin approached shyly with a toy in his mouth, hopeful look in his eye, & timidly wagging tail. I graciously accepted, & tossed it for him to retrieve. I think that was his ‘I saw you from across the room’ moment. He insisted on sitting on my lap on the way home even though Mosey (our toy poodle/’toodle’) was comfortably riding in her backseat bed.

It’s odd to be grateful about someone that you never wish to see again. The gratitude may have multiple reasons; the most crucial for me are the dogs I wouldn’t have met otherwise. Even if one endearing little feller came with some baggage that meant I could barely leave the house.

Like many living beings, Griffin had issues. Primarily, intense separation anxiety. This is a trauma many never get over entirely. First, he’d been surrendered to a veterinarian. That doctor wisely refused to euthanize him at the owner’s request just because the dog had a severe allergy to fleas. He was only 4 at that time. Then he went to a shelter. Next, someone adopted him who then couldn’t handle his separation anxiety, so on to a Chinese Crested rescue network. Then a foster placement. He’d been bounced around so much by the time he was 6, when I met him, it’s no wonder why his anxiety was so bad.

He quickly charmed me. He’d run to his toy basket whenever he heard someone coming to the door & grab an ‘offering.’ Everyone that came over got welcomed with a gift of play. Making a bed, he’d smoosh his head into the covers then look up at me with his new goofy hairdo in an impeccable comic pause. On walks I’d watch those long legs, from behind they were kinda bowed with a fringe, & that swagger looked like he’d just swung himself off the saddle. I nicknamed him Mr. Baggypants.

Meanwhile back at the ranch, a type of human comedy was taking place. As usual, I collect samples of conversation in my journal:

“You cut your hair short! Your ears show. How sad!” This from someone with a buzzcut. It’s uncomfortable when others gush about my appearance so. I try to remain humble in the face of such open flattery, but it’s a challenge. I’m no glutton for compliments. They make me want to change the subject to get the attention off me. Still, one doesn’t often expect to be handed such an obtuse comment as though it were bidden.

“I liked that painting better before you finished it. You should’ve stopped painting sooner.”

“It’s not that I don’t like your cooking. It’s just that your food makes me sick.”

To get art & food reviews from those who don’t regularly create or cook is a fresh perspective. Others’ dietary restrictions might move them to make their own meals. Apparently some would rather be a backseat cook, suggesting substitutions for this or that ingredient, or to leave out integral seasoning. I don’t want to alter my chili recipe to be made without beans, salt, certain spices, onions, garlic, & tomatoes. I believe that dish is called ‘ground meat with peppers.’

A teasing boast of “I’m really good at manipulating people” comes back to haunt me. Like that Maya Angelou quote: “When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.” Cognisant enough to scribble that bald statement in my journal in the early days, it’s possible I was unconsciously collecting evidence. There would be refutations aplenty coming.

It’s my experience that people who practice “blunt honesty” (not my words) seldom fail to take great offense when they receive it. Funny how the shoe only looks fetching on their own foot. I’ve heard the time-honored, scathing rejoinder “No– you are” many times. Who can argue when the tables are turned so eloquently?

All of which brings us to dog training. The how-to books boil it down to 2 things: Consistency, & Daily Reinforcement. I have never wished to train any of my dog companions. By adopting ones old enough to have been housebroken, I just love them as is. Behavior conditioning gives me the heebiejeebies. They’ve already been genetically altered to be dependent on us for survival & to embody our aesthetics. The least we can do is accept them for who they are.

“I can understand training to ease Griffin’s separation anxiety. But to do commands? I feel that’s a ‘you’ project,” I said, because I’m familiar with those who try to turn DIY projects into MSEDIWOBYFY [Make Someone Else Do It With-Or Better Yet For-You] projects. If someone bemoans “People think I’m not truthful,” the flare it sends up inside your head makes you mistrust their motives with a new project.

Sure enough, I was strenuously encouraged to participate. Griffin was excited by the treat incentive in the first phase of training, so his enthusiasm was infectious, which in turn made me take part for a bit. But soon came “You’re doing it wrong.” Words like Sit, Lay, & Stay had been randomly changed to Up, Down, & Hold. The accompanying hand signals were switched as well. Upon mentioning this, I got “No, it’s always been this way.” When they were changed again I was informed “This way’s better.” I finally pointed out that her method was “only consistent in being inconsistent.” That was not well-received, & brought me a rebuttal of ‘being inattentive.’

Upon her frustration that Griffin wasn’t picking up the training as fast as she wanted, she turned to me & said “You’re not working with him often enough.” [Inside I said “Ha!”] My response was to reiterate that I didn’t want to do this in the first place. I was then accused of not caring to help my dog adjust. Somehow following commands to do essentially tricks was now suddenly going to cure his separation anxiety? Someone had some twisty ways alright– all so blatantly  manipulative. The weirdest show on earth. 

Poor Griffin caught in the middle. I felt for him. We were both having our behavior groomed, but I was the only one of us who could appreciate the absurdly dark humor in it. Pingpongs between confession & denial do not establish innocence. The resulting show was morbidly compelling in its improbability though. Reimagining the Steinbeck quote: Ones like this, that work on manipulation, are the loneliest ones in the world. That is this story’s truth. 

I can’t help but query those who wish to control the narrative: What exactly do you think gets jotted in journals?