Walking Danny...

Last summer I taught Danny how to grab his leash out of a basket and bring it to me when it’s time for a walk.

I tried different scenarios: a basket with a handle was a bad idea, his head got stuck; a basket in the corner of the living room didn’t work, he nosed it all around the room. The flat basket under the piano is perfect.

All it takes is me getting a plastic bag out of the kitchen drawer, putting on my shoes, and reaching for a sweatshirt – and he’s there. All big, sloppy tongue and prancing, wiggly butt. “Awrhhnnngh!” he snorts and wiggles. “You wanna go, too?” I ask? He whines and wiggles some more. “OK, get your leash, let’s go!” Then I ask him to get his leash about a dozen more times, while clapping my hands, slapping my knees and pointing fiercely in the direction of the basket. I work up a sweat before I ever head out the door. He’s brilliant. Eventually, though, he got to where he brought the leash to me while I was putting my shoes on. And sometimes when I’m just putting some recycling in the kitchen drawer he thinks it might be time for a walk and he brings his leash into the kitchen and drops it at my feet. He’s even been known to wake out of a dead slumber in the middle of the afternoon and decide it’s time. Sometimes he just stands next to the basket, looking down at it forlornly. Like I said, he’s gotten good.

So that’s why Steve and I are a little frustrated and confused about the latest turn of events: we haven’t been able to get Danny to bring us his leash for the last several evening walks. He still does the whine and the wiggle, but the leash sits quietly in the basket. No amount of knee slapping or earnest cajoling will convince him. He will run to the plastic bag drawer, but he completely ignores the basket. Steve gets fed up and grabs it for him, but I feel like that’s a huge step backward. He knows how to get his leash—I taught him!

So last night I worked at it for quite a while. I even walked over and jiggled the leash for him, “See? Here it is, Dan! Come and get your leash, let’s go for a walk!” Back to the door I went and back he came with me—no leash. Had he been there, I’m sure Caesar the Dog Whisperer would have been appalled; even the kids meandered into the living room to watch the dog in his shameful display of forgetfulness. But I was determined. I kept at it until Danny sat down heavily at my feet, exhausted from the effort of getting me out the front door. I knew how he felt. Apparently we weren’t going for a walk.

Steve told me I was exhibiting remarkable patience. Nobody ever tells me that.

Finally I stalked over, grabbed the leash out of the basket, threw it around Danny’s neck, and yelled what a good dog he was for getting his leash. Off we went.

While we walked we discussed what the problem could be. He was getting it—he had it really—and all of a sudden he can’t do it? Strange. We decided he was just getting old. I told Steve how great it is that Danny’s been getting so much exercise lately, with Sam taking him for a run several times a week in addition to our evening strolls. “But of course Sam doesn’t use a leash, he just opens the door and races off,” I laughed. “I guess Danny is so excited to follow him he doesn’t have time to wander.”

We both looked at each other. “Sam doesn’t use a leash?” Steve asked. We kept walking while we thought about that.

I guess our dog is trying to tell us he’s ready for no training wheels. Either that or walks are more fun without a leash.

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