Driving toward home with Nicholai in the back seat, I spied a large black and white pitbull alone and collarless on the sidewalk. As is my way, I pulled over to the side of the road, ready to see if the dog needed assistance. Muscular and solid, he appeared well-fed and his coat was shiny, but he watched warily as I rolled down the window. I called out, "Hey buddy, need a hand?" I hoped my voice was light and cheerful. He regarded me with wide eyes, a slight flick of his cropped ears, and a straight tail. Right, I thought to myself, he finds me suspicious, plan B. I reached to the glove compartment and pulled out freeze-dried liver biscotti. Slowly and quietly, I opened the door, inched myself out of the car and tossed a few treats his way. He shot me the whites of his eyes and darted down the street. At that instant, a tall stocky man ran toward us and shouted in a booming baritone, "Buster! Come!" Glancing over his shoulder, the harlequin colored dog dashed down the block and the man, who I assumed to be his owner, chased after him continuing to shout, each time with more volume and more force.
I've witnessed this human behavior toward dogs more times than I can count, even done it myself; which is amazing when you think about it, because just as in the above incident, it never works. Dogs do learn the meaning of human vocabulary, but when forced to choose between deciphering Webster's definition of verbiage or interpreting the tone and body language that delivers it, the dogs choose the latter almost every time. A short, deep, barked command to "Come" – especially delivered with anger and its attendant body tension – tells the dog in no uncertain terms to "Go."
By accident, I stumbled on calling my dogs with a series of short, high, happy staccato tones, to which any word can be applied. When fostering a litter of puppies, I was at a loss to get all five of them to come to me so I decided on a lark to call them using "Hey-hey-hey-hey-hey," fashioned after a girl in a movie calling to orphaned geese who've imprinted on her. I didn't think it would work, but it did and the whole litter followed me around the back yard like a flock of furry goslings. Since then it's been my substitute for shouting the command come, and each new dog in our household has been joyously happy to come bounding when they hear it. It can be a work of art, and require momentary mastery of self control, to subjugate the desire to shout harshly at a dog who's running off to chase a squirrel, dashing toward the street, or just frustrating the heck out of me by not doing what I want when I want (I'm the master, right?). But if I treat my dog with frustration in hopes that he will join with me, coming running happily to me, I've made a mistake. He'll most likely respond in kind and bolt away. Paradoxically, I need to step out of my anger or fear and treat my dog in the manner I want him to treat me. Then, Like Nicholai or his friend Macko in the photo above, they'll come flying, bringing their floppy-lipped love with them.
When I got back in my car and pulled away, the beefy man was still lunging after his dog, shouting "Come! Buster, get over here NOW!" In my rear view mirror, I saw Buster duck behind a fence. I wanted to tell the man that he'd get better results with a different approach, but I had to admit, his affect scared me away. Perhaps it cuts across species … "Do unto others …"
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