Patrick and the Dog Whisperer

Excerpt from Other People’s Pets: Critters, Careers, and Capitalism in Yellowstone Country

There are white tufts of polyester scattered across the antique area rug. It looks like the ceiling formed a storm cloud and snowed on the floor. While I was busy editing a podcast on my laptop at the kitchen counter, Patrick was busy with his own freelance work: pulling the stuffing out of a fuzzy pink and yellow ball—a cuddle toy his person meant as a gift for her friend’s baby. I must have ignored him for too long while I worked, and now cleaning up this mess is my penance. It’s hard to imagine how all that white stuff ever fit inside a small child’s toy.

This is my third stay with Patrick, but the first in his new place. Now that he’s living in an actual house, he seems much more energetic. He drops his rubber bone or chew toys at my feet several times a day, begging me to play with him. But even though we’re not in the condo anymore, he still can’t go outside unless he’s trussed up in the metal choke collar and on a leash. The yard isn’t fenced.

Patrick’s house, located in the historic district of downtown Bozeman, has beautiful, freshly refinished wood floors throughout. The wood is soft, and his toenails leave scratches whenever he launches himself after a toy. Most of the inside remodeling work is done, but there are boxes full of the woman’s stuff, as well as equipment, furniture, and other obstacles, stacked in the living room. The only clear pathway for throwing or running is in the front entryway.

Patrick and his person have only lived here for a couple of weeks. In fact, I had to bring sheets from home to put on the bed in the guest room because the woman couldn’t find the box with her sheets in it. A small crew of men walk in and out of the house and the yard several times a day, doing finish work and landscaping projects. From the looks of things, the fence around the yard’s perimeter won’t be finished anytime soon.

So, when Patrick goes outside, I must also go outside. It’s the same routine as in the condo—choke collar, leash, poop bags—but without the stairs. Patrick loves exploring this neighborhood, and he wants more time outside. Who could blame him after nearly two years in a condo? (The six-month estimated completion time had turned out to be eleven months of actual time. Building contractors in Bozeman have way more work than they can handle, building new places for people to live in the Gallatin Valley and in the Big Sky area. They’re working frantically to keep up with demand. And failing.)

When Patrick’s been inside too long—according to his unfathomable time clock—he sits next to me and does his statue-dog-stare thing, eyes drilling into me. He also makes odd little sounds that aren’t barking or whining, but something in between. Rrrrrhuh. Eerrrr-um. Mmm-uff. Uh-ff-uh-ff. Whenever he does this, I know his chatter has nothing to do with bodily eliminations. He’s just antsy. He wants to be outside. I have oodles of empathy for him. I felt the same way nearly every day between kindergarten and the end of high school—a desperate need to escape, to experience something new and exciting, all of which (in my imagination, anyway) existed outside the tedium of school classrooms. Now that I think of it, those antsy feelings have continued well into my adult years, making traditional employment difficult. For me, being trapped inside a building was, and sometimes still is, nearly unbearable—like spikey little insects are crawling over and under my skin. At least I can change my circumstances. Patrick is at the mercy of humans.

After hearing his weird dog-talk for a couple of days, in between scheduled walks, I decide to take Patrick for a playdate with my friend Shan’s Labradoodle, Grace—a continuation of the small experiments I’ve been doing to discover the source of his hostility toward other dogs. It’s a risk, given my experience with him, to let him near another dog. But I simply can’t imagine any dog attacking Grace. She’s one of the sweetest, most likeable creatures I’ve ever been around. But then again, the Golden retriever that Patrick tried to attack in the alley outside the condo might have been sweet and likeable, too.

The memory of that encounter makes me briefly reconsider, but I stick with my decision. Shan’s expecting us. And I want Patrick to be able to run and play off leash. I can feel his yearning to be free—or I think I do. Maybe I’m projecting my childhood longings onto a dog? Sometimes I wonder about myself. But I’ll think about that later.

I fasten Patrick’s metal collar around his neck, which is easy for me now. Outside, I spread old towels on the backseat of my vehicle and tell Patrick to jump in. He leaps up and inside with surprising speed and seems excited about what’ll happen next. During the drive to Shan’s house, I fight off the remnants of my apprehension. I remind myself that this will be a carefully controlled experiment. If Patrick growls and lunges toward Grace, we’ll be out of there lickety-split. His ferocious behavior with the Golden still baffles me, but I have a plan. I’m also curious to see what will happen with a different dog in different circumstances.

When we roll into Shan’s driveway, Grace is already in the yard. She runs over to the gate and leaps for joy. She always leaps for joy when she sees a friend—me and other people she likes. Grace is a huge Labradoodle with powerful hind legs. At the height of her jumps, it looks like her hind feet are only a few inches from the top of the gate. If she were a different sort of dog, one with mischief in her heart, she could probably jump the fence. But she has never done that. I love her enthusiasm. It feels nice to be greeted with such joy.

“What do you think?” Shan says as she walks across the driveway and stops near the open window of my small SUV.

I turn to look at Patrick. It’s a warm day and all the windows are open. He leans out, sniffing the air between him and Grace, reading the situation, piecing together the story of this yard and this dog through the scent molecules that enter his nose. “I think he’s eager to meet Grace,” I say.

Patrick isn’t growling, which is encouraging. I get out and walk around to his window. I step between him and his view of Grace to get his attention. I lean in until my eyes are two inches from his. He moves his head to one side, trying to look around me. With one hand, I turn his head back toward me and point a finger on the other hand toward his face and wag it, like an old schoolmarm.

“Patrick, you be a good boy,” I say, firmly. “No barking or biting. Grace is a nice dog. You be nice to her.” His muscular body trembles as he stands on the backseat, alert and impatient, tail whipping from side to side. His lips are slightly curled, an expression I haven’t seen on him before. Is he smiling? I step aside and watch him watching Grace, who continues leaping, eager to receive her visitors. Patrick doesn’t bark or lunge against the car door. He just stands, twitching with anticipation. So far, so good.

I open the door, blocking his exit with my body until I get the leash clipped onto the choke collar. After Patrick jumps down onto the driveway, he begins to prance, his toenails clicking against the asphalt. He’s impatient to get over to Grace, but I hold him back. We walk, slowly, toward the gate while I monitor his responses to her. He pulls against the leash and then stops to hack and cough when the prongs of the metal collar press into his throat. But his tail is still wagging. In fact, his entire body is wagging. I think this might work out okay. Meanwhile, Grace continues leaping, overjoyed about this potential playmate.

When we’re a foot from the fence, I let out enough slack in Patrick’s leash for him to move forward and touch noses with Grace through the thick welded wire grid stretched across the wooden frame of the gate. “What do you think? I ask him. He starts doing his version of leaping: He lifts his body upward so his front feet come about one inch off the ground while his butt and shoulders shimmy and shake. He definitely seems excited about the possibility of playing with Grace. Or at least I hope this is Patrick’s version of excited, happy behavior, and not I-wanna-get-in-there-and-tear-you-to-shreds excited behavior. He’s never behaved like this around me, but he looks delighted. And, yes, I think he’s smiling.

“Okay then,” I say, leaning down to unclip his leash. “In you go.” I lift the latch and open the gate. Patrick scampers into the yard. I step in behind him, keeping my eyes on the dogs while I reach back to fasten the gate latch.

Patrick sniffs Grace in all the usual places. Grace sniffs Patrick. They do a little circle dance around each other. And then, they take off running across the grass and around the ash tree. They race back and forth across and around the yard. Patrick stops quickly to pee on the tree, to claim this new territory as his own, to leave a “Patrick Was Here” sign for the next dog that enters this yard. And then they run and run. And run and run some more in a joyful display of canine exuberance. Success!

I pull out my phone, take a few pictures, and attach them to a text message to Patrick’s person: Patrick and his new doodle friend, Grace. A successful playdate!

I experience a moment of panic after I press send. I didn’t ask her permission to do social experiments on her dog. But it turns out I didn’t need to worry.

She responds with enthusiasm: Wonderful to see Patrick making friends!

~ ~ ~

Two weeks later, I’m thirty-five miles from Bozeman, walking along a dirt path that follows the low bank of land above the confluence of the Missouri River. Mid-afternoon sun sparkles on the wide stretch of water where three rivers—the Gallatin, the Jefferson, and the Madison—mingle and flow east to join the Mighty Mississippi. I’m always amazed that the Missouri River—a major character in the story of Lewis and Clark and the Corps of Discovery—begins so quietly. The first time I came out here, when I was twenty-five years old, I expected to see roiling waves and hear hydraulic collisions. But no. The three rivers simply braid together unobtrusively as they move around islands of gravel and willow thickets until they are forced into one channel by the surrounding topography.

Despite the lack of drama, however, I come here several times a year, either to walk or ride my bike. I like to watch birds and insects interact with the water. On a weekday afternoon, this is a quiet place in the middle of the increasingly noisy Gallatin Valley. And today is a rare day off for me. I have no podcast editing work, no band rehearsals or gigs, and, thankfully, no responsibilities for other people’s pets. After several weeks of back-to-back critter sitter gigs, I’m finally free to relax and bask in the soothing sounds of nature, which is why I hesitate before answering a call from Patrick’s person. But I’m curious. My next stay with her dog isn’t for another month. Why would she need to talk with me now?

“Hey there,” I say. “What’s going on?”

After the obligatory How are you? Fine. You? verbal shuffle, she says, “I’m hoping you can tell me how you got Patrick to behave during his playdate with Grace?” She pauses. “What magic spell did you use on him?”

“Uhm…I didn’t do much of anything except drive him out there and open the gate,” I reply. “But,” I add quickly, “of course I made sure they weren’t growling and being aggressive with each other before I let him into the yard with her. I made sure he looked happy, like he wanted to play, not fight.”

“Oh,” she says. “Hmmm…I wondered how you did that because I want to take him with me to a friend’s house and she has a dog.”

“Well…” I say, not wanting to give her any advice.

OMG, what have I done! What if she takes Patrick over there and he attacks the other dog, and there’s blood, and vet bills?

I take a deep breath before I continue. “All I did, really, that might be out of the ordinary, is talk to him. I told him Grace is a nice dog and that he’d have fun with her. And I told him to be a good boy.” I stop talking, stop walking, and look out across the comingling waters. I clench my jaw and wait.

There’s a long moment of silence, and then she says, “You figured out the problem with his food and then got him to play with another dog by talking to him. Huh. From now on I’m gonna call you The Dog Whisperer.”