Macaw Whispers

Qantaqa

For 14 years Qantaqa, my beautiful malamute mix, was my constant companion; from Colorado to Cape Cod to North Carolina. She was self-possessed and opinionated and more cat than dog. She liked to lie in the sun or curl up under  the bed. She was responsive to requests, not so much to commands. She spent the days in her den (my Subaru Forester) and resented leaving it to go for a walk with *sniff* humans. She owned me far more than I ever owned her.

 
For some reason, when our severe macaw, Willow, joined our household 6 years ago, "Qantaqa" was the first word she learned and she said it for many, many months before her next word entered her vocabulary (a strident and very appropriately used, "Bye!!"). 

Qantaqa was still with us when Willow joined our house. She'd aged, but she remained stately, as beautiful as ever, and still prone to doing her own thing. She was an old lady and I really didn't have much cause to call her to me -- she came downstairs to go outside when it suited her, she came into the kitchen at meal times, and otherwise she denned up in our bedroom. So in actuality, I didn't use her name that often, and when I did I was much more likely to call her Taqa, Queen Ta or just plain Ta. I think Willow just enjoyed the sounds of her full name. For a brief while, all dogs became "Qantaqa!" (pronounced kahn-TAH-kah). It is odd, though, because our birds generally needed to hear a word numerous times over many months before incorporating it into their vocabulary, much less into daily usage. (With the Murphy's-Law caveat that if it was a curse word, it would be learned in one repetition.)

Willow

Qantaqa died 2 years ago. But Willow still says her name when looking at 3-year-old borzoi, Quill. It's all she's ever called him (though she appropriate calls our other borzoi Finn). And, in a way, she's been prophetic because Taqa's mantel has passed to Quill. He's the only being in the household to whom boss cat, Master Odin shows deference. He's a bit moody, opinionated, and cat-like in his own right, just like Ta was. He is, thankfully, marginally more amenable to training. Nevertheless, we often laugh that he's channeling Qantaqa. 

Last night I was feeding the dogs near Willow's cage. 

"Qantaqa!" screeched Willow, as I was calling Quill to his bowl. 

"Willow, dearest, his name is Quill." I said to her.

"Qantaqa!", she shouted again. 

"This is Quill," I said.

Then I heard her whisper, ever so softly, "Quill. Quill." under her breath. 

I looked over my shoulder and smiled, "That's right, Willow, it's Quill."

She looked at me, raised the feathers on her head, widened her eyes, and paused. Then she screeched, "Qantaqa!"

What could I say? She could be right; maybe he's Quill and Qantaqa.

Recall Synchronicity

Imagine your dog going out the front door, seeing a deer, and tearing off into the woods. Or that you're traveling far from home and your dog slips her collar and runs across a busy highway and into the roadside marshes. Imagine that someone left the gate open and your dogs are racing each other toward the busiest road in town. Or that you're in the competition ring doing a recall and your dog can't hear your voice for the lovely little hound he's watching beside the ring.

Each of these things has happened to me or my immediate family. And it's frustrating (if your dog's not in physical danger) or terrifying (if he is).

So there was no dearth of reasons why I signed up for my first ever non-veterinary e-course, The 5 Minute Formula to A Brilliant Recall with author, agility competitor, and blogger, Susan Garrett. As it happens, just the other day I was doing my homework making lists of things my dogs find distracting. On a scale of 0 (couldn't care less) to 10 (can't even think straight) I was rating each distractor. One of the highest on the list was running loose with another dog.

That night I got home and both dogs were lame. Quill was lame on three feet, poor guy. "What happened to the boys?" I asked my husband. "Oh, there's a tale to tell there." he responded calmly. (That's my husband, calm.) Here's the tale:

Tim came home mid-day to let the dogs out and have lunch. We have a large, fenced dog yard and, on a typical day, they happily zoom around for a moment and then settle down enough to sniff, empty their bladders, and enjoy the sunshine. Being borzois, and faster even than greyhounds, they love the zooming part. Well, once Tim had let them out, he noticed that the dog yard gate had been left open (something we never, ever do). We'd been having some construction done on the other side of the house and one of the workers must have entered the dog yard and not closed the gate again. Tim, panic in his heart, "My wife's gonna kill me." running through his head, went to the front of the house. 

One of the workers said, "I've never seen dogs move so fast!" and he pointed toward one of the busiest roads in town that is just over the rise, less than 1/4 mile from our house. Tim whistled in a way only he (and our African grey) can do and called the boys' names. He did this four times in quick succession. Back around the bend they came, hell bent for leather, joy and the wind in their ears. They raced each other up to him on the front steps. He had tears of relief in his eyes and his heart still in his throat. They had nothing but excitement and looks on their faces of "Did you see us Dad?! We were fast!"

Well, they had a good time but not without consequences. Five feet out of eight had torn and abraded pads severe enough to cause Quill to walk like he's crossing hot coals (picture a severely foundered horse). (Borzoi's note to self - Avoid lure-coursing on hot pavement.) But bandaging feet for a week is a small price to pay compared to what could have happened.

Thank goodness that Tim has conditioned the dogs to that whistle for the last two years -- likely it's all that could have reached them over the distance they'd run. And thank goodness for starting this recalling course and that it's already making a difference -- their recalls are far better than I realized.


I'm looking forward to the rest of the course. A recall can never be too fast. And never again will I complain about Tango, the African grey, hurting my ears with a perfect imitation of Tim's whistle.

I Never Thought I'd Own A Clicker

I have to admit it. I bought a clicker.

I told a friend, not 2 months ago, "I'll never do clicker training. I can't stand the sound. I don't want to be tied to a clicker. And I sure don't want Tango (my African grey) constantly clicking!"

"Never say never."

Mother-of-mine, you were right.

It all started with Susan Garrett. She's an agility competitor, an author, a blogger. And her enthusiasm is infectious. I read her book, Shaping Success, The Education of An Unlikely Champion, in one weekend. It was a wonderful story about her training adventures with Buzz, the red border collie. Oh, did I fall in love with that dog. And clicker training started to niggle at the edges of my mind throughout that weekend of running with Buzz.

So, as is my way, I began my research. I read Karen Pryor, Patricia McConnell, Pat Miller, more Susan Garrett, and others. And I bought my first clicker and started clicker training some easy tricks with our two young adult borzois, Quill and Finn.

Training with a clicker is like having a lexicon to communicate with your dog. Scratch that. For you to communicate with each other. It's positive reinforcement training -- you're reinforcing the dog for giving you the behavior you want (sitting, looking at you, speaking) instead of punishing him for performing behaviors you don't want (jumping on you, chasing the cat, rushing out the door).

The click is meant to indicate to the dog that what he's doing at that precise moment is correct and a treat is coming. It's a very exact tool and your timing has to be spot-on. If you're paying attention, you'll learn as much from your dog as he learns from you. Quill, especially, is a master at showing me the error of my clicks.

To whit: in one easy session I taught Quill (inadvertently) to lick my hand whenever I turned it palm to him. My goal was to have him touch my palm with his nose. His "brother" is doing this beautifully and this type of targeting can be very helpful in training other behaviors so I wanted to teach it to Quill. But I was having trouble.

The behavior you get is what you have reinforced with the click. Clearly, at one point, I had clicked when Quill licked instead of when he touched, and that's what he continued to offer (and I, in my beginner fervor and poor timing, continued to click the lick, not the touch). Now I'm having an amusing time trying to get him back to a nose touch instead of a tongue touch. But what's really wonderful is that, instead of being frustrated by this, I'm fascinated by it. And it's not a hard fix. I just have to improve my timing.

Our dogs have always enjoyed training. But never have they tried to bust down the door of the training area to get in there to work. And my enthusiasm matches theirs.

Guess I'm just gonna have to put up with Tango clicking. I wonder when it'll start?

Borzoi Paws on My Heart

Many, many years ago I began my love affair with obedience trials and dog training. It was when I was in veterinary school and my canine partner was a sassy, difficult, intelligent and challenging German shepherd named Natasha. We did quite well, really, as long as we were indoors (only happened at one trial), there were no kids (rarely happened), I was relaxed (only happened after we left the ring), and I didn't lose my cool (I was 25, what can I say, that one was a rare bird too). Which is to say, we never earned an obedience title. We tried, but my life and career and her far too early death prevented us from attaining that goal.

More than 20 years have passed and I now have a borzoi. Not a traditional obedience breed by any stretch. Nevertheless, I love obedience training with Finn. When things are going well, it's like a dance. And it feels incredible.

But training a hound, especially a sight hound, is challenging. In his mind, everything that moves is important. So, in the comfort of our training class, all is well -- he focuses on me, I lead the dance, and we look like a well-trained team. But, when we go somewhere new, it's a whole different game. A leaf, a bird, a candy wrapper -- they're all bunnies to him. Oh, it's tough to convince my prey-driven sighty that I'm more interesting and more rewarding than the candy wrapper bunny dashing across the field!

Nevertheless, we recently made it through our first obedience trial. We even earned the first of three "legs" on our Companion Dog obedience title. I was very, very proud.

But, if I'm being absolutely honest, if I were a dog, I'd be a Border collie. Which means I want to work, work, work, and I want to "get it right". (Read, B's just aren't sufficient, I want A's.) So, while I'm proud of our accomplishment, I want to achieve more. I gotta banish those imaginary bunnies from Finn's mind!

If you've ever worked with a sight hound, you know how tough that is.

It means I've got to do LOTS of "proofing" -- taking our skills and working them in distracting environments like the grocery store parking lot, the pet store, the dog park, near the school where kids are playing, or in a multitude of other new places. So we've been working on that. And our best friend in the endeavor is liver treats -- that are almost as good as invisible bunnies.

We're working, he becomes distracted by that "bunny", I say "ready!", his head whips around, his eyes lock on mine, a liver treat is delivered, and, for a moment, we're one in the dance with his feet following my lead and our hearts enmeshed. It's a glorious white light moment, just him and me and our dance, we're moving as one, absolutely in sync with each other. The wonder of that moment draws me back to our practice, day after day.

The practice is hard, hard work. For both of us. But that dance is like nothing else in the world.