It's gotten cold.
The wind blows now, unapologetically slapping my face. When I forget to wear gloves, even on the briefest of walks outside, my hands, while clutching the leashes of two Shelties, try to find shelter inside the lining of my jacket pockets. The fleecy reprieve, however, only lasts so long. Unlike Henry and Gus, I don't have a built-in parka. Unlike me, they don't seem to care that the ground is now frozen.
I'm not ready for winter.
Metaphorically, the sudden coldness is appropriate. I thought we'd mastered the art of playing agility -- if only the playing part. Henry had found his confidence, and "Super" Gus was his usual self: eager to please and eager to play. Then, in Wednesday's lesson, Henry knocked a bar again. And Gus...Gus finally said "No Way" to heights. Maybe the incoming arctic air augured the chilling of our training.
Gus doing the "superman," a/k/a everything to avoid just putting his back paws on the A-Frame. NOTE: he is NOT doing a full frame yet. We just wanted 4 paws in the yellow - that is our ONLY goal right now.
It's hard not to feel frustrated. Dejected, even. I know this sport has its ups and downs; its moments of glory and its occasional disasters. I know that every moment should be a party. After all, we're playing. This is fun. At least, it's supposed to be. On the surface, I still wear a smile even though I'm harboring feelings of being Charlie Brown after Lucy enticed him with the football, only to rip it away at the very last second. I try not to feel discouraged, but raw emotions are honest, and it's hard to keep them from gnawing at my heart.
I'm not expecting perfection. I'm also not naive enough to think that Henry won't have off days. Maybe I'd gotten spoiled by the amazing progress he's demonstrated recently. For example, at Wednesday's private lesson, Henry wowed me. We'd been working on the weave poles using channel weaves, and he was starting to understand the concept. On a whim, Marta (our instructor) and Jennifer tried wire guides to assist him. Instead of shying away from those guides (as we expected him to do), something clicked for him, and he walked through them perfectly.
I was so amazed at Henry's progress, I stopped working with Gus to watch Henry repeatedly -- yet slowly -- demonstrate the weave poles (with wires) as if they were child's play.
On Wednesday, Henry's weave pole debut combined with a lesson in handling -- taught to me by Super Gus -- had me feeling on top of the world.
Gus helps me work on handling.
I left Wednesday's lesson feeling positive. Feeling encouraged, I was confident.
Less than twenty-four hours later, a cold front brought frigid air, and our pre-novice class brought back "soft" and shy Henry.
Maybe it was the knocked bar after all? Or Maybe it was because, like everyone else in class, I felt like Henry's confidence in himself had built to such a level to where I could put him in crate and walk the course with the other handlers instead of holding a scared Sheltie in my lap. I thought maybe he'd gotten accustomed enough to the facility and the other dogs that he could actually "BE" like the other dogs. Maybe, I was overzealous.
The "crate."
Henry didn't have the meltdown I expected, so I felt optimistic. "He's getting it," I thought to myself, "He's finally coming into his own." So, when it was our turn to run, eagerly, I took him out of the crate, gave him our usual pep talk of words only he and I will ever hear, and expected a good run (by his standards).
Just like that, my expectations were shattered. What I got was a dog who wasn't present on the course. Our first series was a jump to an A-Frame to several more jumps and a tunnel. He got the first jump, but when he tried the frame, he didn't scamper up it with his usual enthusiasm. The A-Frame is (was?) one of his favorites. Forget the next jump. Forget the tunnel. He stood frozen, staring blankly at me almost as if to say "I don't feel like doing this today, mama."
Concerned that he was forgetting the game, immediately I went into play mode. I ran around like a stupid person; I threw his toy. I got him to do the dog walk (one of his favorites), and then I called that run "quits." We scrapped our second run of that series (each student gets 2 runs), and our second series wasn't much better. Henry didn't want to do the A-Frame. He didn't want to jump. The only thing I could get him to do was play, so faking a smile, I obliged him.
Self doubt made itself a passenger in my car on the drive from our training facility to home. Am I pushing him into something he doesn't enjoy? Maybe Henry isn't cut out to be an agility dog? But that can't be possible. Henry LOVES going to class; he loves "playing agility." Typically he bounds out of the car, practically dragging us to the doors of the facility; typically he runs up and down the A-Frame on his own accord -- all the while smiling -- because it's one of his favorite games.
I can't think in terms of failure, and I certainly can't think that Henry isn't entitled to having off days. We all get them, so why shouldn't he? Maybe it was the bar he knocked? If that's the case, we'll lower it again until he's comfortable. Maybe it was the crate? If so, I'll hold him in my lap again until he's ready. Maybe he's just that soft dog where any little thing or combination of things can derail an otherwise good day?
Henry's pensiveness is a challenge unto its own. Gus, well, my "little box with legs" at eight months old is prone to his own idiosyncrasies. A fear of heights being one of them (I have no idea why, but he won't even jump off of the bed). Overcoming this challenge doesn't seem so daunting, though.
I have no way of knowing the cause of Henry's setback. I have no way of knowing whether this is a random bad day or whether there's something in training we need to address to build his confidence again. The only thing I do know is that we will come back another day. We'll come back for another lesson. And, this probably won't be the first or last setback we'll ever have.
Nevertheless, I'll try my best to get him playing again even if we're having the worst day in the world.
