Drool, Drama, and Divine Intervention

"Okay, mister, get this all out of your system now, because starting Wednesday there will be no more of these shenanigans on walks."

Only I didn't say "these shenanigans."

I was talking to Stein Eriksen about his upcoming puppy classes, telling him that soon his pulling, lunging, jumping, or full-stopping would come to an end because in puppy class they would teach him how to behave like one of those angelic, majestic show dogs—in turn, making me look like the dog whisperer and best damn dog owner in all of Huntington County if not the state of Indiana.

It was a nice dream. 

Current reality was quite different. Stein and I had been doing the same walk on our little cul-de-sac routinely since he was old enough, and we had our good times and our bad times. There were days when he got a C- on the walk for various reasons, and there were days when he got a B+. A's were rare. But we were making progress. Many times we silently walked, loose leash, and it was wonderful. 

But, people, children, toddlers, and sometimes birds would distract the beast and he just couldn't stop himself from breaking free and running to greet them. Eventually, I had to accept the physics of the thing: 100-pound Stein versus me was not a fair match. So yes, I’ve let go of the leash more than once. He doesn’t run wild—just makes a direct (and joyful) sprint toward the friend he needs to meet, then stops. I catch my breath, say a little prayer, and we reconnect. There was no fear he would hurt anyone, and we live on a quiet cul-de-sac, so even though it wasn't ideal but it wasn't catastrophic either. Still—not giving "best dog owner."  

Because of this and a few other things (like Stein's stubbornness and his selective listening) Bob and I had decided to enroll him in puppy classes at our local pet services place. Six weeks in a group setting, learning basic manners, seemed doable and practical. Stein would without a doubt be the biggest and the oldest in the class. After all, he's now over a year old. But, Stein is a late bloomer (all Bernese Mountain Dogs are, apparently. They just mature slower than other breeds), and it made sense to wait until after he was neutered (again, because of how they grow it's recommended to wait until they are a year old to be neutered). So, now was the time. 

God has a funny sense of timing. I'm telling you this as a friend, so you're not caught off guard the way I always am. Puppy class was not an exception. I envision God just sort of chuckling at the entire lead-up to the first class. Because—per usual—I thought I had it all figured out. That I’d stick the landing.

Puppy class was scheduled for Wednesday nights from 6-7 pm. Perfect for people who work, and easily manageable, one hour a week for six weeks. Then puppy graduation parties can be scheduled (if that's not a thing, it should be). But Wednesday nights are Bob's nights out. So it would be me and Stein. Gulp.

The "gulp" moment for me was all about how Stein was going to react to the whole thing. After all, the classes were taking place at the same pet services facility where we take him every other week for a full day of play-play-play at Doggie Day Care. When we show up to drop Stein off for DDC (as we like to call it), he is rearing to go. And by that, I mean he's slobbering, jumping around like a ninny, and whining to get out there with his buddies. When the car door opens, it’s like he’s been shot out of a cannon. (This is the same dog that won't get out of the car when we get home, we literally have to drag him out.)

So how would Stein Eriksen behave when we show up at his personal playground to do some serious work? You already know how this is going to go.

And, so did I. And so did Bob.That's why Bob changed his plans for week one of puppy class, so that he could go with me and keep Stein under control (or at least just keep him from hurting me). This was great. Maybe we'd get something out of day one after all. 

The day came. And so did the storms. The weather people had been hyping this for a few days. They said it was going to be a doozy. And it was predicted to hit right at about 6 pm. I vaguely wondered what other puppies would do if it was storming. Stein isn't afraid of storms, so I wasn't worried about him, but I was curious. 

Turns out Zach's Pet Service is well aware of how many puppies and dogs react to big storms, so they (wisely) cancelled the class, with a makeup planned. 

Well, God, what am I going to do now? This was not part of the plan. (Of course, it never is.) See, Bob couldn't change his plans for the new Day One. He would be in Phoenix at a conference. Which meant: no backup. I was going to be doing this solo.

We saw Bob off for his trip on Tuesday, and when Wednesday morning dawned, I started getting nervous. Despite how much I prayed about it, I was having trouble putting invasive questions out of my head. Just getting him through the door would be a challenge—it was a target-rich environment. How would I keep him from mowing over the other puppies? How would I keep him from demanding love from the other pet owners and staff? I watched the clock all day. 

My prayer about puppy class wound up being something pretty inarticulate, but very heartfelt and it was something like: 

God, you will just have to take care of it. 

I prepped by filling my puppy training fanny pack (yes, it’s a fanny pack; yes, it’s practical) with Stein's favorite treats, including some cut up string cheese, his kryptonite. I prayed the prayer. And, I did some box breathing (4 in, 4 hold, 4 out, 4 hold). Then, we got in the car and went. 

And, like an anxiety person, I showed up in the parking lot a full 15 minutes early. Surprisingly Stein wasn't having a full meltdown, so we just chilled in the car. More box breathing. More prayer. When I saw a couple with a cute little doodle who was kind of all over the place, I figured that was one of our classmates, so I let them get inside, and it was time. 

By the time we got into the lobby, Stein was out of his mind. He finally realized where he was and just knew that he was there for DDC and so the race was on to get to the playground. Since I was clearly struggling to stay upright, one of the kind workers at Zach's offered to take him and I let her. She was quickly met by Miss S. the professional dog trainer who took him and started leading him down the hall to the classroom. I watched as Stein struggled and she calmly paused and made him take a breath and when he would let up a little she'd take another few steps. It seemed to me to take forever. 

When we made it into the room, without the distraction of my dog and my arm being ripped out, I could see that there were two other puppies in the class: the doodle I saw in the parking lot, with her pet parents, and a Basset Hound and his dog mom. An open chair at the far end of the room was clearly our spot. Miss S. got Stein over to the chair, I sat, and she handed me the leash. "Do you have him?" I must have grunted some kind of acknowledgement because she stepped away to get ready to start the class. 

What happened next I can only describe as a full-blown, 100-pound puppy tantrum. The kind that makes people question their life choices. I kept thinking: God, do you see this? Are you watching this? I know the other puppy owners were, and the looks on their faces (when I was brave enough to look) were saying: We cannot be in here with that dog.

I actually said, “I promise he doesn’t act like this at home!” and I could feel the whole room nodding with that polite Sure he doesn’t energy. Miss S. was undaunted, like any pro would be, and she just shouted over Stein’s whines and cries. When she asked the pet owners what they hoped to get out of the class, my response was something like, “I’m hoping for an end to this!” Uncomfortable chuckles. A couple polite nods. I felt like the only one in the room speaking fluent chaos.

Then came the question I had been dreading—or maybe just hadn’t seen coming in this particular moment: had we considered using a correction collar? Miss S. was looking directly at me and said she highly recommended this for Stein. I paused for just a moment. And then I said yes. Because I trust her, she was going to teach me how to use it correctly, and because it was intended to help him listen. To teach him how to stay close, how to walk well beside someone who loves him.

She quickly slipped the collar on Stein and demonstrated its effectiveness by taking a few laps around the classroom. Stein was excited to be up and moving, and it put the other puppies within reach (I could feel the other pet owners holding their breath). But with a few gentle tugs and some calm commands, just like that, my 100-lb Berner was under control. No drama. No yelps. No crying. "Now you try," she said, handing me the leash. Oh boy, I thought.

It wasn't perfect, but our walk around the room wasn't horrible either. I sat back down and maybe for the first time since we'd gotten to Zach's, I breathed. It was going to be okay. During one of the subsequent drills, the doodle's owners made the comment that it was really working and that he seemed like a different dog than when we came in. Partly true, for sure. But he was the Stein I know—and yes, love—because the slobber was flying, he was still doing his best to catch the eye of his potential playmates when we were taking our turn, and he would periodically, in an apparent combination of excitement and frustration, throw himself down on my feet with a big sigh. 

God was watching. He did see us. He had me. 

The thing about this story is that it wasn't an overtly "spiritual" experience. I mean it was just a dog training class, for goodness sake. But it does sink into my heart because I keep remembering and then forgetting that even in these seemingly banal moments of our lives, God really is there. It doesn’t have to be a mountaintop moment. We can know He’s near even in the mess. Even in puppy class.

It could have gone another way. It could have been a disaster from start to finish, and if it had been this would be a slightly different story (maybe funnier...and that reminds me, I'll have to ask if they have security cam footage of the meltdown, that could be great). But either way, covered in Stein slobber, I walked out feeling like I was loved. 

I didn't become the Dog Whisperer of Huntington County that night. But I did leave with my arm intact, my spirit a little steadier, and the quiet realization that I hadn’t been doing any of it alone.

God took care of it.
God took care of me.
And yes, drool and all—God took care of Stein Eriksen, too.