Cowed by a Dog

On the Road to Houston

When we got Zeus some four years ago, he was a very mellow Jack Russell, which means that he could be nuts on occasion, but generally, he was a sweet and somewhat obedient dog. He would charge out the door if we weren’t cautious, but he’d always come back.

Except for the time a caring driver lured him into his car and dropped him off at the pound, affording us an anxious and sad night. We stood in the field across the street calling his name and imagining him hurt, lying wounded in a ditch, prey for the coyotes that held regular deer parties there. Maybe he’d serve as a side dish.

But we found him, cooped up and whining his heart out to be released and allowed to return to his castle on the hill where his servants anxiously awaited his arrival.

Then we discovered Cesar Millan, the Dog Whisperer, a true genius with animals. Now Zeus doesn’t pull on the leash all the time, escapes but will stop if he decides you really mean it, and generally has aged into the kind of dog that’s a pleasure to travel with. People seem to think he’s adorable, despite the fact that my business partner Frank always thought he was a rag-tag little pain in the neck, and of course Zeus adored Frank and never left him alone.

He still has a penchant for seeking out the most dog-averse person in the room and jumping on his or her lap to smother them with wet kisses, while his victim invariably calls to mind the last place Zeus’ mouth was.

There is one small habit that Zeus has acquired, though, that I have yet to break him of.

Cow alert.

Now I can understand a dog woofing at the occasional stranger outside the door, or at the itinerant doggie who crosses his boundaries, which is to say, the immediate world. But cows? In a field at least half a mile away? What does he want them to do? Run? Cows don’t run. Moo back? Give milk?

But bark he does, and bark he continues, until they are well and gone from his personal movie screen. If I try a Cesar technique and gently poke him to distract him from the cows, I can interrupt the barking, but not for long. He’ll look at me, then bark right in my face as if to say, look at all them big dogs out there. If I poke him again and again, or if I hold his snout closed, he eventually stops, but I can still feel his coda of bark ‘n rumble, so quiet as to be almost inaudible, but definitely there, a last growl or two to let them know he wasn’t a dog to be trifled with.

The other day I was driving, and Zeus was parked on John’s lap, one eye closed in pre-sleep. Suddenly John spoke up: Look Zeus! Cows! Ruff ruff! And of course Zeus went on the alert, barking until the cows were tiny dots in the rear view mirror. Now I know why it’s been so difficult to break him of this peculiar behavior. He has an accomplice.

Is there a Cesar for humans? Am I going to have to start poking John in the ribs when he misbehaves? Does he too need a Gentle Leader, that leash that goes over his nose and pulls his head down when he acts up or strains to be the pack president?

Can I teach this old dog some new tricks? I'll let you know.

Betty