Training & Behavior

Spin is a stupid trick. That's why I taught it. Widge, my flat-coat, knew the useful things, sit, down, the look, the come, and I wanted something with no point except joy, a dog who turns in a circle on cue because it's fun, and fun is the part of training people skip, the part that makes a dog want the next lesson, and a retriever who wants the lesson is a retriever who learns the lesson, and the spin was the bait.

I lured it. A treat by his nose, drawn in a circle, his head followed, his body followed, and the moment he completed the turn I clicked, the click being the yes, the exact yes, the marker that says that, do that again, and dogs love a yes they can earn, and Widge earned it, spun again for the treat, and within a day the word came, spin, said as he turned, so the word and the turn became one thing in his head, the way all cues do, slowly, with cheese.

The kids lost their minds. The youngest, who'd been scared of the dog a week before, now shouted spin and fell about when he did, and a child who laughs at a dog is a child who's not scared of it, and the fear had been the wall between them, and the spin knocked it down, a stupid trick doing a serious job, which is the way of dogs, that the small things build the big trust, and the big trust is what lets a child hug a retriever without flinching.

We added the other way. Spin left, spin right, because a dog who can do both is a dog who gets the concept, not the route, and the concept is the thing, the turn on cue, and once he had it the trick got silly, fast spins, slow spins, spins for nothing, spins for the sheer joy of a kid yelling, and the flat-coat, who lives for joy, gave it, and the house got louder in a good way, the way a house gets when a dog and a child find a game.

The surprise was the recall. A dog who spins for the click will come for the click, and the spin became the warm-up, the thing we did before the serious stuff, and the serious stuff got easier because the brain was already on, already working, already paid, and a retriever who's spun is a retriever who's listening, and a retriever who's listening comes when called, which is the trick that matters, hiding inside the trick that doesn't.

I don't overdo it. A trick done to death is a trick done to death, and Widge will tell you, the way he tells you everything, with a look that says I've spun, where's the rest, and the rest is the walk, the work, the life, and the spin is the sprinkle on top, not the meal, and the meal is the relationship, which the spin fed without meaning to, the way the silly things always do, the games that turn out to be the glue.

The oldest kid teaches it to the dog now, the lure, the click, the word, and watching a child train a dog is the best version of the trick, because the child learns the timing, the calm, the reward, the whole quiet craft of it, and the dog learns the child, and the two of them spin in the kitchen while I make tea, and the tea is late, and the late tea is fine, because the spin was never about the spin, it was about the kid and the dog finding each other, and they found each other, twice a day, on cue.

He spins for the postman now, unasked, which is a new problem, a retriever who thinks the mailman wants a show, and the mailman does not, but the joy is the point, that a dog who turns in a circle for love is a dog who's been given a reason to turn toward you, and the toward is the whole of it, the dog who comes toward you, spins toward you, lives toward you, and the spin was just the first turn, the silly one, the best one, the one the kids will remember longer than the recalls, though the recalls are why he's alive.

The trick travelled to the park, the spin on the grass, the kids showing their friends, the retriever turning for strangers, and a dog who spins for strangers is a dog who's confident, and the confidence is the trick's shadow, the thing it taught without meaning to, that a dog who knows a silly turn knows he's clever, and a clever dog is a calm dog, and the calm is the recall, and the recall is the life, and the life is the walk, and the walk is the spin's mother, the serious thing the silly thing fed, and the fed is the joy, and the joy is the kid, and the kid is the teacher now, the one who lures, clicks, says the word, and the word is spin, and the spin is love, and the love is the dog, turning, every time, toward the child who taught him, which is the whole point, the turn toward, not away.

He spins for his dinner now, unasked, a circle by the bowl, a small demand with a grin, and the grin is the retriever, the happy fool, the dog who'd turn for a carrot if you asked, and the asking is the game, and the game is the bond, and the bond is the family, and the family is the kids, and the kids are the trainers, and the trainers are the love, and the love is the spin, and the spin is the silly trick that wasn't silly, that was the door, the one the scared child walked through to meet the dog, and the dog met her, turning, grinning, and the turn was the hello, and the hello was the start, and the start is the home, the one with a retriever who spins, and a child who laughs, and a tea that's late, and the late is fine, because the spin was never about the spin.