Barbara Woodhouse’s book No Bad Dogswas written in 1982 by the renowned author, a dog trainer, and authority on best practices for training dogs. Her books are still in print and clips from her popular British TV series are available for viewing on YouTube. I became a devotee of her dog training methods when I acquired two Labrador retrievers in the late 1980s. It was very important to me that I have dogs that were trained well and would obey my commands, as well as being loveable, generous family members. It was hard work, but I was young and strong and ready for the challenge. I am proud to say it paid off. I had two well-trained animals, one of which gave us years of companionship and whose passing we still cry over.
Training an animal takes time. Repetition, patience, and commitment is the name of the game. I also believe selecting the right dog for one’s own ability to give the animal a fair chance of obedience success is critical. If you are a little senior citizen as I am, you probably shouldn’t have a strong energy-packed pit bull dragging you down the sidewalk. Not all pit balls are bad. But all pit bulls are strong.
Over the years, we’ve all seen or heard of cases where for variety of reasons a dog attacks someone or another dog. I am reminded of Woodhouse’s mantra: “There are not bad dogs, only bad humans.” Dogs are animals and even the best-trained beasts can surprise us for unknown reasons and behave in “bad” ways. The cure is knowing your dog’s temperament as best you can, understanding your ability to control the dog with voice and leash restraints and, yes, accepting your physical limitations for handling the dog you’ve decided you want.
Suffice to say, my dog is small. Harry is a fluffy, oftentimes-skittish fifteen-pound mature neutered male Havanesse and also pretty darned cute. People, especially children, want to pat him, pick him up, or approach him as they wish. His reaction to the situation determines how I’ll allow the interaction to take place. If Harry isn’t interested, I’ll tell the adults as well as the children: “He is nervous around strangers,” and gently move away from the people. If Harry is channeling his inner werewolf, I’ll cross the street to avoid anything nearing an unpleasant experience for others, as well as Harry. I have spent considerable time understanding my responsibility to the public at large and to Harry, specifically when it comes to allowing his involvement with other dogs or people. That’s my job.
So, when my husband and I are out walking the lovely village streets of Mattapoisett (or anywhere else for that matter) as we have done for many years, we’ve got a pretty good handle on dogs and people who are approachable and those who are not. If there is any question in our minds, we stick to the side of caution. I mean, really, why take a chance? We’ve watched enough court TV to see what can be a very sad result when people are irresponsible with their dogs.
But I’ve also seen it up front and personal.
Decades ago my son was mauled by a large mixed breed dog while collecting his paper route money. He had knocked on the door of one of his customers and as the resident opened the door, out flew the dog, biting my son on his face and neck. I can only write this now because it was so long ago and the ending to the story is a fortunate one. My boy sustained four puncture wounds on his face and nearly lost an eye, but mercifully his neck had been protected by the thick hood of his winter snowsuit. It took me years to get over that event – years.
In that case, the only thing the dog owner did wrong was not anticipate his dog’s impulse to go after anyone at the door and its ability to do so in a split second. By the way, that dog owner came out only after the dog had pinned my son to the ground and was whipping his head back and forth with the snowsuit crammed in his jaws. The man used a baseball bat to subdue his dog.
A dog that vicious should have been restrained before the door was opened – period. The dog owner later told the police, “He’s never done that before!” It only takes one time for a tragic accident to mark someone’s life or face forever.
There was another incident several years ago when I was walking our dog Max, a twenty-pound Cairn terrier, when an unrestrained enormous German shepherd dashed from its yard on the east side of North Street to the west side and attacked Max. That owner ran over and grabbed their dog while expressing that familiar refrain, “He’s never done that before!”
Fast forward to last week when my husband and I were out walking Harry. The whole being-able-to-walk thing is a huge issue for me at the present time, having had surgery in November to repair a broken leg. Part of my therapy is walking. We were having such a good walk in the cold crisp air rising up from the harbor. We could feel the heat of the sun as it broke through the intermittent clouds and naked tree branches. I was at peace and feeling so good. Maybe everything would eventually be all right, I was thinking, even though I most likely need more surgery in the future. For now, though, everything was right in our world.
As we approached the corner of Church Street and Barstow heading north, we saw a woman struggling to restrain a large powerful dog. We tried to hurry across Church Street before this person turned south on Barstow directly toward us.
As the seconds passed, we got as far as two or three steps into the crosswalk painted on Church Street when the growling dog broke free and, pulling the leash from the woman’s hands, charged towards us.
The dog attacked us, knocking my husband to the ground where he hit his head on the pavement and was injured. The attacking dog kept running and charging at Harry who was screaming his head off and speeding away from the snapping jaws of his nemesis. Thankfully, Harry is fast and, just before any injury, the woman was able to gather the leash off the ground and drag with all her might that nasty beast away.
I was, in a word, hysterical. I remember bellowing, “What is wrong with you? You can’t control a dog like that! … What if it went after a child? What if it broke my hip?!” What if, what if, what if! But none of that happened, this time.
Another couple who witnessed the incident called the police and helped me collect myself and Harry while my husband went after the woman who was quickly moving away to get her contact information in the event we found our dog had been injured or that my husband’s injury was more than a hard bump on the head. That dog owner kept saying, “This has never happened before!”
We gave the police the story, as well as the dog officer. I told both that all I wanted, given that the injury was minor to my husband, was for that dog owner to be cautioned that when that dog is in the public realm it had to be wearing a muzzle. We are awaiting more details from officers. We hope for the best and that the public will be protected from this dog, for clearly that woman was clueless.
Dogs are animals. If Harry decides to attack another dog or a person, he could do some damage – but let’s face it, nothing compared to a larger, more powerful dog. There is another much more significant layer of responsibility a dog owner possesses when deciding that big Brutus is the dog for them. First and foremost, I say, is sign all dogs up for professional dog training classes; and, then, leave nothing to chance. It only takes a second for someone’s world to be shattered by a dog whose owner is lackadasical about the potential for injury.
I’m still shaking. It will be weeks before this incident will fade enough so that when I reflect upon it, I’m not brought instantly to that moment when I found myself whacking an attacking dog on its back with my walking stick and witnessing my beloved husband’s face grimace in pain as he struggled to his feet to protect me and Harry. It sickens me. And so I ask, who is responsible for that? Definitely not the dog.
This Mattapoisett Life
By Marilou Newell