Rising from the "Fall."
The inevitable happened.
And, it was my fault.
We were having fun. We were playing. Playing agility. All the while, Henry had no idea he was learning and practicing and practicing and learning contact obstacles. Learning. Practicing. Playing.
All smiles hitting the "target."
Perhaps in that moment I got overconfident.
I'm not a "handler" yet. Far from it. That I can get through a course without positively tripping over myself is an accomplishment to be cherished. And clearly...clearly Henry and I have not developed that certain synergy achieved by the dynamic agility duos we've watched in awe. Diane and Cruzer. Chris and Zoe. Jon and Aislinn (hello Westminster 2017...my DVR will be set!). Lois and Pat (hey brother!). Just to name a few.
We're new at this, remember? We are still trying to find that certain connection built by trust. That certain "spidey sense" that reassures me that, without looking, I know where he is, what he is doing, and that he is "with" me. That certain faith he has in me that tells him unequivocally: "Trust in me. I won't lead you astray."
But, after all we are still a team. We've been a team since we conquered his nervousness during trick class. Throw Jen and Gus into the mix, and we're the "57 Musketeers." Solid. Strong. Bonded by love.
On an agility course; however, we're still figuring out how this teamwork thing is supposed to work. Learning and practicing. Practicing and learning. Playing. Last night, my enthusiasm erupted after Henry managed to nail his 2 on/2 off contact training. Not once. Not twice. He showed me his skill every time I asked him. First from the bottom of the dog walk. Then, after starting from one end of the obstacle and finishing on the other. He was controlled, calm, and smiling.
Henry's done the dog walk many times over since his first full-sized dog walk in August. For some reason, he's not afraid of the thing. And the A-frame? To him: a playful whimsy. He runs up it. He runs down it. Because, he can.
Henry and Jennifer find success in a short sequence.
Henry was eager to display his newly-found skill. The question was: would this skill translate when the dog walk was not merely an isolated obstacle but part of a larger series of other obstacles? Would this skill be lost once Henry was running -- almost unbridled -- full of endorphins and displaying his usual enthusiasm for playing his favorite game?
Tunnel. Walk. Missed contact.
Tunnel. Walk. "Target," shouted midway on the cross beam with treats placed at the target. Contact made.
And again with an added A-Frame. He was getting it!
And then maybe he got tired. Or maybe, I got tired. Or careless, seemingly forgetting the game altogether. A-Frame. Tunnel. Walk. And, then I forgot my job. I'm supposed to be his handler. I'm supposed to provide him with the information he needs. I'll never really know what happened -- whether it was, in fact, my fault. But, in talking with a friend, my guess is that it was my fault, because I saw it happen.
I. Turned. Around.
With one turn, my body language betrayed him. This one movement: a movement he read like a book, responding in kind. His concentration on the obstacle: gone. And then, where his paws once touched a plank, they now flailed, searching for solid ground and finding nothing but air. Bewilderment in his eyes, he came crashing down.
Displaced from my chest, my heart jackhammered in my throat. I watched him hit the ground. The few seconds in which he was on the dog walk and then he wasn't were painfully slow. It was almost as if time stopped and a second became a million of them. My feet frozen.
My utter shock and horror of witnessing one of the scariest things an agility handler can witness had to be suppressed, lest I transfer my fear onto Henry leaving him forever scared of an obstacle which previously had been child's play to him. Counterintuitively, I did what a wise friend and what our instructor told us to do in situations like these: celebrate. Praise him. Enthusiastically, I proclaimed the words: "Good Boy!"
Instead of rushing to him, instead of comforting him, as every fiber in my being wanted to do, I created an instant party. I jumped like a dork. I pretended those million seconds didn't happen. I grabbed him, ruffled his fur. "Good boy!," I exclaimed again. Treats? Yep, he got some of those too! What a good boy for being so brave!
Thankfully, he was not hurt. Not one bit.
And then, hiding my trepidation, I knew we had to pick ourselves up and dust ourselves off. I asked him to walk the walk...again. A bit slower, yes. But he didn't hesitate. And again. Slower, but he didn't refuse it.
Although it might not seem like it, our lesson was a complete success. You see, I choose to make lemonade out of lemons. Last night, I replayed the events in my head and surmised: I learned exactly what not to do. And maybe Henry and I each grew just a little bit closer by not reacting to a perceived disaster while turning it into a celebration.
Henry's FIRST EVER dog walk (not full size) - April 2016
The real proof, however, was in the pudding. With today's pre-novice class, I couldn't help but to wonder "What is he going to do today?" A knocked bar a few weeks back sent Henry retreating into "soft dog" mode, so I was fully expecting a setback. I was fully expecting our recently found confidence to be undermined.
Surprisingly, the setback didn't happen. Today -- and less than 24 hours since "the fall" -- Henry ran the dog walk in a pre-novice class with all eyes on him. I'm not sure why, but on his first attempt at the walk today, I shouted "target," knowing full well nothing was at the bottom of the dog walk. No target. No treats. Yet, he stopped in the contact zone, obliging me without question.
And those seconds. Those seconds at the bottom of the dog walk where he stayed smiling and and waiting for me to release him caused me to smile in return. In those seconds, we both knew we'd overcome yesterday.
The fall won't be forgotten anytime soon, but I'll carry it -- and the lessons learned -- with me. I'll carry the smiles, too. Most of all, I'll continue to remind myself that, while I cannot control what happens in life, and while I cannot always control what happens in agility, I can certainly control how I react to the unexpected. Life sometimes deals us some rough cards, and I won't pretend that circumstances can't be completely sucky at times. I won't pretend that my life is rainbows and ponies, because truly I'm coming off one of the most miserable years of my existence, having lost two of the most important beings I've ever come to know and love. Even so, I've taken my licks and remained standing. I remain vigilant. Hopeful. So long as I've got my happy and healthy four-legged best friends figuring out this journey with me, I'll continue to smile.
