My parental decisions, I am embarrassed to admit, have too often been influenced by the potential for my permanent unpopularity. The occasions when I have parked my common sense in favour of making a child happy – or side-stepping their negative opinion – have not always done them any favours. Like many parents of my generation and culture, I tend to place more importance on the relationship I have with my kids than whether the best answer is ‘no’. To those brave and confident parents who have managed both firmness and friendliness with their children, (Midlife Jobhunter appears to be one) I offer my congratulations and a not a little envy.
Over the 28 years that I have been a parent, I’ve spent some time examining my errors, and this one is at the top of the list. Number two is my inconsistent application of discipline – not the corporal kind – and after spending a couple of recent months in the company of my adult offspring, it is apparent that I have influenced them towards a certain insouciance, insofar as deadlines, order and the judicious application of their attention to the road are concerned.
(Note to my children: Don’t think for a second that I believe you to be seriously flawed. Rather, it’s sometimes evident to me that, had I been a little more with it as a parent, you might have had some more helpful habits in place. The nature vs. nurture debate has never satisfactorily determined what aspects of personality and character are inborn but it’s safe to suggest that I am responsible for not instilling in any of you a better defence against procrastination, for instance.) 
So I could have put my foot down and just said No when Youngest Son said last fall that he wanted to bring a dog to live in my house, but being firmly opposed to anything is not a natural position for me. I preferred to appeal to his practicality. After a protracted, long-distance MSN discussion during which I cited at least 30 reasons why getting a dog was a bad idea (I saved the conversation in case a reprise was necessary), he proved once again that I am someone to be ignored. When I arrived home a month later, a Giant Alaskan Malamute was in residence. (Like their Canadian cousins, the Huskies, Malamutes are Northern sled dogs who are noted, among other things, for their physical strength and mental stubbornness. These two attributes do not a good combination make, in either dogs or children.)
I am a realist. There was no point in objecting – the dog was there to stay. And besides, I fell in love with him. There was no other option for an animal with snowshoes for paws who could easily whup a lion cub in a cutest-ever contest. But the black-and-white bundle of fur who had to be plucked out of December snowdrifts had become, four months later, a 115-lb adolescent whose height was the canine equivalent of Eldest Son’s 7’0” and whose personality could be best described as Totally Chill alternating with Cannon-on-the-Loose.
The first time I offered him breakfast, he went vertical and kibble scattered to the four winds. My eardrums hurt from the sonic thunder of his bark. Going for a walk meant trying to get out of the house without having my upper body slammed against a barely-open door, and my left bicep began to develop at an unnatural rate.
In short, he was trouble: undisciplined, oversized, and too big to control by force. Despite his affectionate temperament and complete lack of aggression, he was an intimidating sight bearing down on small dogs and children, his favourite beings in the world next to his human dad. Something had to be done. 
My only experience with dogs had consisted of a decade-long relationship with two pre-owned Belgian Sheepdogs, one of whom came with a perfect report card and natural deference. The other one got me enrolled in some basic training and we both learned a few things about what I should and shouldn’t be doing. She was intelligent – as opposed to obedient – and although I never could trust her around rabbits or other female dogs, she became my favourite.
Having supplemented my patchy recollection of dog commands and desirable behaviours with Youtube videos of Cesar Milan, Dog Whisperer, I felt ready to take on the task of teaching Noa how to be good. Whatever nuances of puppy-training I didn’t know about, one thing was burned into my intent – I would show him who was Da Boss.
Mealtime manners were first. No aggressive food behaviour allowed any more, and he had to sit, lie down and wait to eat until given permission. His master had done a good job of teaching him the first two, but Noa figured he owned the bowl. It took about a four days before he could be relied on to wait in front of a full bowl, ,even when the food-giver left the room. A couple of weeks later he didn’t even need to be told what to do, and without a word from anybody, he lay down quietly and would not eat unless given the OK. 
Next step: door decorum. Ladies first – in fact, humans first. This was a bit tougher, as Noa would already be on a leash and in a state of high excitement about getting a walk. It took a couple of weeks before he stopped trying to take my arm out the front door without the rest of me, but after a while he got the message that if he didn’t sit and let me go first, nobody was going anywhere. Ditto stairs.
But the biggest issue was the neighbourhood Iditarod. This world-famous sled race usually takes place about 10 degrees further north and requires snow, but Noa had his own version. The first half-block of the competition was deceptively easy, distracted as he was by getting the leash between his teeth. Looking up with an ‘aren’t-I-cute’ expression, he would trot beside me for only as long as it took him to realize that we were actually Out of the House. Once the full significance of the situation hit, he was off at full-bore sled dog, with me hauling back on the leash with every ounce of strength I had and thinking that gaining an extra hundred pounds had its advantages.
Grind to a halt. Sit. Calm down. Heel. Shoulder dislocation. Halt. Full circle turn. Sit. Heel. Shoulder dislocation. Do it all again. And again. And again. But finally, interrupted step by interrupted step, he learned that he couldn’t get away with anything and that if he wanted to go for a walk , he had to stay beside me. (This is still a lesson-in-progress, and for every time he responds to ‘Heel’, there are at least as half as many when he doesn’t.) 
It did not escape me that there was a certain amount of enjoyment involved in my gaining the upper hand. Being an Alpha female is more fun than bungee-jumping. That Noa was learning to behave well was the primary reward, but there was also that ancillary glow about being decisive and unambiguous about my expectations of him. There were times when I was tempted to let him sniff even when he was supposed to be at heel, and others when his joy at seeing another dog made it seem mean to insist that he sit patiently and watch, but damn, it felt good to be totally consistent. I became one of his favourite people despite, well, actually, because of my role, and it was then that the light went on. I didn’t spend a second wondering if my firm decisions affected my standing in his doggy heart, and that left me free to just go ahead and apply the rules for his own good. He held nothing against me and in fact, the more I persisted in expecting him to do the right thing, the more he seemed to like me.
Why couldn’t I have done this with my kids? This should not have been the revelation it was. In theory, I knew this already, but sometimes you actually have to experience the truth to really get it. Had I known way back when what I know now, I could have been as good a raiser of children as a trainer of dogs.
If I could do it all over again, I’d practice parenting on a pooch first. But since that’s not going to happen, I’ll have to wait and see if it works on the next generation. Although, the other thing I’ve learned from Noa is that good grandparents must be equipped with Velcro lips.
I guess it really is too late. 
0 comments:
Post a Comment