‘Make him sit and wait’
Anna Blundy takes her dog Marmite to Tip Top training and finds that the whole procedure could just as well apply to men The lady in the orange baseball cap is shouting to be heard. It is true that she hasn’t got much choice — the barking has become deafening. ‘You have to teach them to respect you!’ she screams. Owners tug sheepishly at their dogs’ leads and attempt to shush them without appearing to be unworthy of respect. ‘Otherwise they can make your life completely miserable.’ It occurs to me that this is a point that could be made about creatures other than 12-week-old puppies.
While, for Marmite, Tip Top training is about getting little chunks of garlicky cheese for doing fairly rudimentary things on Hampstead Heath (though it is true that he struggles somewhat with ‘roll over’), for me it turns out to be relationship counselling with a few child-rearing pointers thrown in.
The key thing, Sue (the orange baseball cap-wearing dog trainer) tells us, standing in a circle of nervous owners and frenzied puppies, raising her voice above the wind, is to reward good behaviour and ignore bad. So, when he chews the cover of Melanie Klein’s Love, Guilt and Reparation, take it from him gently, hand him one of his own toys (eg. squeaky lobster) and say ‘Good trade’ in your most encouraging voice. Easy.
A friend of mine (also a national newspaper editor) told me recently that he was falling in love with his new girlfriend because she made him eggs on toast when he rolled in drunk rather than giving him ‘the usual aggro’. Now, this could be cringing feminine servitude in the face of pissed oppressor, or, on closer inspection, could it be that New Girlfriend is in fact practising Tip Top obedience-enhancing techniques? By overlooking bad behaviour, she could be ensuring future respect. If she had doled out the expected aggro, would my friend have continued with his metaphorical (and perhaps literal) weeing on the carpet?
Back on the Heath the Great Dane is not behaving himself. He has twice pulled his ‘Mummy’ over and she is shouting at him, exasperated.
‘There’s no point in screaming at him,’ Sue says, coming over with her pockets full of cheese. ‘It’s like screaming at your children. They know they don’t really have to do anything until you start. Give the command once and encourage him with a treat.’ I think of all the times I have yelled at the children, weeping with fury and exhaustion; ‘Why, why, WHY do I have to get into THIS kind of state before I can get you to start putting your clothes on?!’ ‘Now then. You don’t want puppy barging past you to get through the door first,’ Sue says, doing a convincing impression of an impatient, bargy dog. ‘He won’t be this size forever. Make him sit and wait, then you go through the door and he comes in last. It’s basic respect.’ She uses a Scotty called Elvis and two red cones to demonstrate doorway etiquette. Russian men know all about holding doors open for ladies. English men need to go to Tip Top training and practice with cones.
At the imaginary door Elvis stops and waits, an odour of respect clinging to him. He is a prime example of a Tip Top dog. We others look on in bewildered awe at his grace and servility, despairing of the chewing, straining, scratching and scavenging wretches at our own feet. ‘He stays just by your left leg, taking his cue from your own walking speed.’ My husband, on the other hand, walks ten paces in front of me, increasing his pace as I scuttle cockroach-like to keep up with him, tugging desperately on my mental lead to no avail. I realise now that this is because I have not been carrying with me my metaphorical sachet of garlicky cheese treats.
The Great Dane, easily the size of a cow, has hurtled across the grass, ears flying, to bark at a terrified cyclist. ‘When you walk in from work you greet the other family members first, puppy last,’ she says. ‘He’s got to know his place.’ In a family where we barely greet each other at all, this will be a hilarious exercise. In fact, it is like something out of The Rules, instructing women to play hard to get in order to ensnare the man of their dreams. A stupid charade, because all any of us actually wants to do is pet the dog.
It is dawning on me, as I bend to pick up a poo that contains, as I knew it must, three whole foam ear plugs (two orange, one green), that this whole training procedure involves a lot of bizarre dating advice. A Tip Top dog must have a special toy that he can only play with when you say he can. You keep the toy special by only allowing the dog short bursts of enjoyment with it. This is the ‘treat them mean, keep them keen’ approach. Sue is all for it.
‘I’m not saying don’t cuddle him,’ she explains, having, in fact, just told someone to stop cuddling their enormous white furball creature who was jumping up (Bad Dog). ‘But only cuddle him on your terms. Off means off.’ And no, as we know, means no, even if it was preceded by the hint of a yes. Tip Top dog training, like so many other things, can be boiled all the way down to the lowest common denominator — the adult human equivalent of chunks of garlicky cheese.
Thus, a Tip Top dog is one who knows his place and will do anything to acquire the treats that only you possess (assuming you have managed to drag him away from Sue with whom all the dogs would far rather go home), even roll over. A Tip Top child tidies its room and gets ready for school before the screaming starts. A Tip Top husband walks to heel, opens doors and cuddles only on command, manipulated into idealising you and your treats by a system of gentle Lysistrata-like withholding and deceit.
Surely this, I think to myself, dragging a reluctant Marmite round a few plastic cones as he chews his lead and digs his heels in, is a very Russian approach to relationships. My Moscow girlfriends often sit around over champagne talking man training in a very Tip Top way. ‘Make him wait for sex. Then tell him he is clever and the best in bed. They love this.’ I’m sure they do, but I have noticed problems with the system.
The continued presence of your average billionaire lured in using methods of this kind cannot, naturally, be guaranteed. After all, anybody can carry a bag of treats around and one can never know when he might bound off, ears flapping, towards some treats he prefers.
I conclude, as the rain really starts to come down on bedraggled dogs and owners alike, that I shall be resolute in continuing my punishing, screaming and retributive approach to human relationships, while rewarding Marmite for his good behaviour at every opportunity. After all, Marmite has never told me he felt sorry for me when I was embarrassing myself by talking too much. And he never will. Good, Tip Top Dog.
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