"The Civilizing of Indiana Jones" sounds like the title of Steven Spielberg's next blockbuster, but it is, in fact, the theme of my life this spring and summer. I've decided to make a concentrated effort to refine the leash manners of Indy, my schnauzer. Or, as he's known in my neighborhood, "The Barker."
I adopted Indy three and a half years ago. I thought I was adopting a "dog": a four-legged presence that would be pleasant to have around the house, the canine equivalent of turning the T.V. on for background noise.
Our previous dog, Oscar, had been my family's star, an engaging, quirky little creature--a centerpiece. No one could replace him, my kids and I agreed. But a house without a dog didn't feel like home. Enter Indy.
And while it's true that Indy is no Oscar, he is most definitely a someone, not a something. He was an adult dog when he joined my family, with a past he couldn't tell us about. He had a host of inexplicable behaviors that made perfect sense to him but drove me to my wits' end on a regular basis.
He barked hysterically at every knock on the door. When newcomers entered the house he followed them at heel, a low, edgy growl bubbling in his throat. We learned he didn't like being surprised from behind when my son cheerfully exclaimed "Hi, Indy!" and playfully grabbed Indy's back, then leaped away when Indy spun and snarled.
I considered returning him to the shelter many times in those first few months. What kept me from doing so were the glimpses I'd get of the other Indy--a dog who wanted to be a good boy but wasn't quite sure what that entailed.
I finally saw the true Indy two months after I adopted him, on a Friday night in December. I was home alone. I'd gotten some bad news about a friend of mine that day, and I decided to lay low, eat pizza, read a book and feel lousy.
As the gravity of my friend's situation sank in, tears filled my eyes. I set my book aside, put my head down, and let myself cry.
Indy got up from his spot on the floor and stared up at me for a moment. He gently stepped onto the sofa, then into my lap. He placed one front paw on each of my shoulders, then pressed his face against mine.
He was no longer "the dog." He was my dog, for better or for worse.
My dog had a lot to learn about walking on a leash. "A lot" meaning everything.
Imagine hooking a leash on a tornado and trying to guide that wild, whirling mass along a sidewalk. If only walking Indy was that easy.
That first whiff of fresh, outdoor air affected Indy like a combination hallucinogen/amphetamine. Wild-eyed, panting, leaning into his harness like a maddened plow horse, Indy would drag me up and down the sidewalks of our neighborhood as I yanked back on the leash, futilely trying to rein him in.
It was exhausting. It was embarrassing. My left wrist developed a reddened stripe from the pressure of the leash handle.
Did I mention the barking? The ear-splitting, glass-shattering, un-doglike shrieking whenever Indy encountered a fellow canine?
I scoured the Internet, took Indy to obedience classes, and consulted my dog expert friend Kathi for tips. Everything worked for awhile. Then it either stopped working, or I grew tired of the endlessly repeated techniques, said the heck with it, and let Indy drag me uphill and down, he shrieking, me cringing.
Over time I learned patience and gentle firmness, and Indy learned that the person he loved best in the world was at the other end of his leash. Today he pulls, but less frantically; there's no longer a red stripe around my wrist. He shrieks at other dogs, but sometimes a firmly repeated, "Indy, no" will quiet him.
But this spring and summer will be the final civilizing of Indy. I've vowed that he will walk quietly. No pulling. No shrieking. I am, after all, the boss of my one-dog pack. It's time Indy learns that, once and for all.
Last weekend, walking Indy, a woman stopped and asked if she could pet him. As Indy danced and panted, soaking up the extra attention, the woman told me she's owned schnauzers for 25 years. "The ones I have now are 9 and 11," she added.
"Do they ever calm down?" I asked.
Smiling the kind, weary smile of a fellow schnauzer lover, she shook her head. "No, they don't. I'm sorry."
"The Civilizing of Indiana Jones." That just may be the theme of my fall and winter, as well.
Deb Pascoe of Marquette is a freelance writer and a peer recovery coach for Child and Family Services of the U.P. A former columnist for The Mining Journal, her book, "Life With a View," a collection of her past columns, is available in area bookstores.