The Training of Tawny (1)

The Training of Tawny

Introduction

Jill Wylie often wrote of her tracker-dogs’ sundry achievements, especially the tracking down of lost and trapped animals, and many people asked how she managed to train them in such apparently extraordinary ways.  She would characteristically express bafflement at the question, as if she had never thought about her method, or regarded it as so instinctive and transparent it needed no explanation.  However, she did eventually begin to write something a bit more instructional than her usual stories, accounts, poems, books and reports. The Training of Tawny recounts in a sort of ‘biographical’ way how Jill went about training Tawny, a little Labrador-cross, to trust her, integrate with the menagerie of Wildwoods Sanctuary, and do the search work.

            The manuscript was never finished, but there is enough of it worth airing, which we will do in several parts.  In some ways, there isn’t anything extraordinary about Jill’s methods: as you’ll see, it all seems so obvious actually.  What was extraordinary was the ends to which she put that training – and because she had a purpose, and needed a woman-dog team to achieve it, she did end up with astonishing successes.  In the end, it is all founded on insight, observation, empathy and a pure reverence for life itself. - Dan Wylie

PART 1

She was an unsolicited gift from a distant friend.  Her mother was said to have been a yellow Labrador – more likely Golden Retriever – father unknown.  I thought I could detect a touch of Collie, more certainly Spaniel – in any case really just the sort of dog I would have chosen myself.  We already had two dogs: Bay, an enormous Great Dane-Irish Wolfhound cross, and TellMe, a Basenji-cross-Keeshond, but they were getting on in years and it was not a bad time to take on a puppy.

            Her new home was Wildwoods Sanctuary, our wildlife, forest and conservation sanctuary in the Vumba mountains of eastern Zimbabwe.  She was about to enter a rather busy household, which consisted of the following:

            One husband (Jack);

            One 16-year old son (Danny);

            Two dogs: TellMe, surrogate mother to countless puppies, kittens and fawns; and Bay, 125 pounds of loveable stupidity;

            Five cats (Bounce, 17 years old and very polite; Drum, Siamese-coloured “tom-tom”; Fable, stocky Russian Blue with a crushed zig-zag of a tail; Yes-I-Am, Siamese orphan from the forest; Jungle, beautiful bottle-reared “show-tabby”; and Fleur, black-and-white long-hair, once paralyzed but moving well if shyly now;

            One genet, Whipaway, an orphan in process of rehabilitating into the forest but still paying regular visits;

            One duiker, Hillbilly, another orphan now free but regularly returning to share the chicken-grain;

            One small flock of bantams, including When, fierce 8-year old mamma hen.

Into this menagerie tumbled 6-week-old Tawny – so named for the shaded gold of her coat –  weary and confused after her long journey, but undismayed by the number and variety of her sudden companions.  There would be a great deal to learn.

She ran immediately to big Bay; maybe she looked something like her Labrador mother, magnified several times. Young Bay, who had never seen a puppy before, was wonderfully and unexpectedly gentle. She knocked her softly flat with her exploring nose, tried her best not to tread on her with her huge paws and took great care not to sit on her.  She never cared who else she sat on.

TellMe took time to look over the new arrival, accepted her and immediately demanded that she behave herself in her presence.

That night I put Tawny’s basket on the floor by my bed, settled her on her blanket with a hot-water bottle under it, to provide a warm and rounded bulk like a companion pup.  When she woke in the night whimpering for her mother and the security of her siblings, I could drop my hand down to her and she would know she was not alone.

By dawn she was rested but naturally still confused.  I gave her a drink of warm milk and took her out immediately onto the lawn to relieve herself.  I called her, Tawny Tawny Tawny – the first lesson she needed to learn.  When Jack had gone to work and Danny to school, I sat on the lawn again, took the puppy onto my lap and called her name over and over, in soft excited tones until she was happily dancing on my lap, loving this new game.  During the day I called her many times in the same soft tones, whenever there was something to show her or give her, and by evening she knew that this special sound meant her – and so did Bay and TellMe, who, when they heard that name, would instantly look around for her.  She was uncertain, though, when Jack and Danny returned in the late afternoon and called her in their voices.  It would take a day or two to realise the word ‘Tawny’, in any voice or tone, was meant for her.

Jill, Bay and Tawny

Trust

After that first playful lesson on the lawn I lay back and nestled her into my armpit, stroked and crooned to her and felt the tension run out of her.  There, with her head on my shoulder and her face next to mine, she gave me her trust, totally and unconditionally.  There is something about that position that seems to reassure frightened and insecure puppies.  I have used it many times.  It’s akin to when a small, troubled child puts their little hand in yours and you feel that awesome trust flow into your very soul.

Starting out

I like to start training a puppy when she is six weeks old.  This may seem very young.  I once thought so, too – until our Basenjis had pups.

            Basenjis, allowed to develop as they should, are as close to nature as are cats.  In fact they display many feline characteristics. When their puppies were six weeks old our two took them out and taught them – to mind from underfoot, to come, to wait, to keep quiet, to track, to observe, to obey. It is quite amazing how much a healthy, inquisitive puppy can learn at that early age. Reliability, of course, comes only after practice, maturity and self-control.

            To start training such a tiny puppy without confusing her or inducing negativism, I need to have a clear plan of what I am going to ask of her as an adult dog as well as at each stage of her development, and the vocabulary I will use. I need to know something of dog psychology and the origins of her instinctive behaviour.  I must be prepared to ‘think dog’ as often as I ‘think human’. To realise her potential and her limitations, I must be able to accurately read her expressions and her body talk. And I must train as a parent.  Later, when I want serious work from her, I gradually become something of a pack leader, as well as something of a big sister.  If at the same time I allow her to become something of a human, as she readily will if she trusts me, we will have a great thing going between us.

            The main thing at this very early stage is that one is hardly ‘training’ so much as reinforcing what is already coming naturally to the puppy, saying ‘Come’ when she is already coming, ‘Sit’ when she is already in the act on her own, and using the enthusiasm of her own curiosity more than anything else.

            I have read many manuals on dog training. The methods used for basic obedience are generally the same, while the approach to more advanced work varies considerably.  Some are rather insipid and shallow, many too unsympathetic and over-regimented for my liking.  Most are set for proper school conditions and many lessons call for the aid of an assistant.  Which I didn’t have.  And would never have in the real-life search situation in the bush.  I had to work rather differently.