When my husband retired from teaching and went into real
estate fulltime, we decided to get him a dog. He wanted a Golden Retriever,
because he knew a few people with that breed and he had always wanted one. He
said he could imagine himself driving out to list and show houses, his pooch
riding shotgun. I did a bit of research and discovered that, while Goldens are
known to be affectionate and loyal, sometimes they can leave a bit to be
desired in the intelligence department. The key was to train them up from a pup
– so that meant we should probably get one from a breeder as opposed to
adopting an older dog from a shelter.
Well it turns out that Goldens are pretty popular, so they
are rarely found in a shelter anyway. I signed up with the Golden Rescue
network but again, most of their dogs were adults – with special needs and
not-so-great habits. Some weren’t fond of children, while others did not do
well with other dogs. We went ahead and found a breeder near Arnprior, and in
May 2017, a little red runt named Fergus came home with us.
This was meant to be my husband’s dog, but who are we
kidding? I have done the bulk of the care, feeding and training of this fella
since he arrived. When Ferg was tiny, he slept in his crate at the end of our
bed. It was I who scooped him up out of his bed in the middle of the night at
the first sound of a whimper, running him outside and plunking him into the
grass with a “Miso; Unko.” I read in a puppy training book that if you teach
the dog those Japanese terms (likely spelled incorrectly) when he relieves
himself, pretty soon you will have him going on command – and no one will be
the wiser (unless they speak Japanese). I ran him outside a few times a night
for the first several weeks of his residency at the farm.
Puppies sleep a great deal, but as summer wound into fall
and the days got cooler Ferg soon revealed his true nature. He gave up napping
altogether and switched to high energy activities like running full out after a
ball, and destroying every toy he could find. He wasn’t a bad dog; he just had
to try to destroy every chew toy he was presented. Eventually the hard rubber
‘chuckit’ balls were the only things he couldn’t (or didn’t) destroy. And
that’s a good thing, because those balls are his life. On Ferg’s hierarchy of
needs, the chuckit ball is on the very top.
Mina from Norway came to live with us when Ferg was just 4
months old. It was Mina who taught Ferg that after you catch the ball, you must
return it to the human if you want it to be thrown again. Over the winter, As
Ferg grew out of his puppy stage and began to show he needed exercise after a
long day in the house, I developed a lazy habit. I opened the door to the
porch, put the ball in the pitching arm, and chucked it out into the backyard.
Ferg leapt off the porch and bounded through the snow, sniffing for the ball.
Nine times out of ten, he found it. And while he was looking, he was getting a
lot of exercise. I was in the house, sipping my coffee and watching with
fascination from the window as he left zigzag tunnels through the snow around
the yard.
Now another year and a half later, Ferg is still a naturally
lean dog who prefers to eat his meals after a good round of chuckit ball. I’m
quite proud of my lazy self for inventing this game, because it means I can
exercise the dog in any weather, even when I’m busy making dinner, doing the
dishes or folding laundry. Ferg taps on the door, I open it and chuck the ball.
Repeat. When Ferg has had enough and needs a break, he still brings the ball to
me but when I go to pick it up where he has dropped it at my feet, he swoops
down and snatches it away from my hand.
I take credit for inventing this game that has saved me from
trying to find time to walk a dog – but maybe it’s the dog who trained me to
throw the ball. I thing Golden Retrievers are actually quite smart, after all.
Mine might actually be brilliant.
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