Thoughts on Confidence

 14 year old Song ran up the ramp to my bed this morning. She has done this several times in the last few days. I built the ramp so the old dogs could get safely on and off the bed, but my first attempt at a secure surface did not provide the traction needed for an old dog to ascend and descend safely. Song slipped a few times and learned to mistrust it. I bought a kit to put a rubberized surface on the ramp. There is no slip on this surface at all, but Song’s risk assessment included many young years of jumping on and off the bed and a short time using a ramp where she slipped. She kept jumping. It did not always go well. She mostly only gets on the bed for our morning play sessions, so I’d close her out of the bedroom until I was ready to take her collar and escort her up the ramp safely. It worked, and I was good with continuing with this plan for as long as I’m able to enjoy her company. I had no expectations of her being able to do the ramp on her own. Then after two months of my helping her, she just started doing it on her own. Up and down, joyfully and confidently.

Confidence in life has a huge genetic component along with the impact of life experiences. Often we blame a dog’s lack of confidence on some incident in their past. Yet, in the words of Beverly Lambert, “another dog might have gotten over that.” Life brings adversities and challenges, in particular the working life of stock dogs. Things go wrong, dogs get frightened or hurt. Many dogs come through strong, some need work to rebuild their confidence, and some never really recover. We should work to always build the confidence of our dogs. We should also value the dogs that are resilient to adversity.

Song has always been confident in life. Given her early earned mistrust of the ramp I did not expect her to use it voluntarily again. But she did. Because I did not expect her to use it again on her own, I did not work towards that goal. I simply prevented her from jumping and helped her on the ramp. I suspect that attitude provided patience that was more useful than a goal to overcome her fear.

Whatever the reasons, it is hard not to smile when my old girl bounces up that ramp happily and barks at me until I deliver the special morning squeak toy.

Loss

I walked to my car along this familiar road, the last time I'll hear my feet on the packed dirt, brook dancing along the base of the field, welcome the shade of these trees. Today I stood for the last time where I've stood at the post so many times, watching my dog cross the brook at the Spring Valley trial, up the hill to bring the sheep across the bridge. With the cars parked along the road, familiar faces among the crowd, you expected to see Steve Wetmore walking along, hat on his head, dog at his side, asking how your run went.  Instead he came in the hearts and memories of the many there to celebrate his life.

I loved the setting for this trial, the relaxed atmosphere, the pot luck in Steve's front yard, walking my dogs up the dirt road, and testing my timing on the difficult course. It was the quintessential New England trial, and it was Steve. 

Remember the time he hired the magician Marko for after the dinner? Oh lord I laughed that night. Marko was there today. He handed me a deck of cards, told me to shuffle, pick one, and write something on the face. I wrote "Thank you," that dreaded trial expression that appreciates a job well done even when your run is over.  Of course Marko found it in the deck, multiple times, and we laughed.

Steve was a good handler, a good dog trainer. His dogs knew the job and trusted him. His runs were worth watching, stock and dogs treated with skill and respect. Steve was a friend to me and many in our community. 

Loss sucks. Thank you Steve. 

Retired

It happens just like that it seems,
No planning, no party or gold watch
Today it is too much to ask,
the hill, the distance, the speed

We’ll find new work together,
small tasks that need doing
And I’ll remember you walking to the post by my side
Sent with a word, like releasing the wind,
up the field, out of sight,
carrying the weight of the work and my trust

 

© 2021 Maria Amodei