Defiant Doggie

“Willie, come.”

The sun is rising, and I’m crouched down beside the front door holding Willie’s harness and leash.  It’s time for our morning walk, which will be followed by breakfast – both his and mine.

Willie stands just beyond my reach, looking at me.  Why does he hesitate, holding himself apart?  Does he object to “saddling up,” to wearing the gear?  Still on my haunches, I make an awkward crab step toward him; in response, he takes several steps backward, maintaining the distance between us.  He wags his tail once and stares.

“Willie.  Come!”  My voice is stern this time, and I point to a spot on the floor before me, jabbing my finger at the air with authority, but the effect is the same.  Zero.  It occurs to me then, in this momentary stand-off, that for a creature to understand pointing it must grasp the idea of concepts represented by abstract symbols – something, for at least the moment, that is beyond the intellectual ability of this young pup.  I sit back on my butt and sigh.  Willie wags his tail.  Once.

This behavior — Willie’s resistance — his defiance — at leash time has become a pattern.

I hold out my hand, as if it might conceal a treat, but Willie is too smart for this ruse and stays put.  I hold out both hands, then turn them, palms up, as if pleading.  “Come on, Willie – you know you want to go out; you know you want to walk.  Let’s go.  Come on.”

Nada.

“Come on!”  I just raised my voice at a dog no bigger than a housecat.  He’s not moving.

Richard appears in the doorway.  “Willie’s being defiant,” I tell him as I get to my feet.

“He’s not defiant, Ed.  He’s…. independent.”

“Well, you know what would be better than independent?” I say, finally attaching the leash to Willie’s harness.  “Obedient.”

It’s time for some training.