A dog named Red taught me the difference between teaching and training.
When I was young, I knew a good hunting dog was made from a series of skill sets. Here, heel, sit, hold, delivery to hand, exposure to birds, and gunfire were a thorough and proven foundation to build on. A puppy with the drive, brain, gumption, and the right skills could become a great partner in the field.
I was confident in my knowledge and stayed there. It was a repeatedly successful process—until it wasn't.
My defining moment came in the form of a little dark yellow Labrador named Red. She wasn't the dog I would have chosen as a finished hunting dog for a client, but through a series of events, she was the dog I had to build.
Red worked because you made her. She did nothing without direction. One step forward always meant six steps back. What I could train another dog to do in a month took her two months. I didn't look forward to training with her, and her feelings toward me were mutual.
I will never forget the morning she sundered my soul and made me realize how little I knew about dogs.
That morning's lesson should have been simple. It was a single-mark water retrieve down a hill, into a shallow entry pond. A seen bumper. Ten feet out.
We had finally, painstakingly, been making progress. I had a checklist of foundational skills that I could hold her accountable to, and by all accounts, we were looking at a successful lesson.
Red and I took our position. The bumper launched in a beautiful arc and splashed into the pond.
I sent her by name, and the little dog took off in a flash, charging down the hill at breakneck speed. Surely she was about to launch into the water.
Instead, she skidded to a halt, dipped a paw, and walked away.
To say I was second-guessing my life choices while sitting in a field watching Red smell wildflowers is an understatement.
I knew that everything I had learned and every skill set I could build was not enough.
Red needed something different, something more than the hundreds of training books in my office contained, and I was clueless as to what it was.
I didn't sleep that night, but somewhere between staring at the ceiling and researching going back to school, I decided that Red should at the very least move into the house.
A few evenings after I'd installed Red—albeit reluctantly—into the foyer, I found myself sitting on the front step. Red was refusing to come in, dancing away or running just out of range whenever I tried to catch her.
She was delighted.
I was browsing Edinboro University's online course catalog while delaying the inevitable phone call to a client to admit defeat.
A wagging tail against stone caused me to lift my head.
Red was sitting in front of me, eyes bright, tail sweeping happily across the porch. Gently held in her mouth was a green maple leaf.
Without a thought, I held out my hand.
She carefully laid the leaf into my palm as if it were the greatest treasure she could bestow upon me.
I patted her on the head.
I didn't know then how important that maple leaf was.
I didn't know that acknowledging her gift would change my relationship with Red.
And I certainly didn't know that it would become the foundation of my entire existence with dogs.
It didn't stop with a leaf.
A few days later, it was a stone. Then a glove, a sock, and occasionally a chicken egg.
Red would hunt endlessly until she found the perfect something and present it to me.
Each was met with a chuckle and praise.
Within a week, she knew she was the best dog in the world.
And I?
I had found the missing piece.
We were learning about each other and practicing our new skills. Quickly discarding what didn't work and holding tightly to what did.
We still occasionally took two steps back, but we could quickly reclaim the lost ground.
In a month, Red went from my most dreaded training candidate to my favorite coach.
She never failed to communicate and would hold a grudge for days if I missed her cue.
I became more adept at understanding what I was being told and responding appropriately.
I acknowledged eye contact.
I praised thought processes.
I rewarded half attempts that were at least moving in the right direction.
My lessons with Red spilled over into every other dog in training.
I was desperate to learn and needed repetition.
Instead of a line of dogs that needed training, I had a group of willing teachers, and I, their bumbling student.
I learned more that summer about myself and dogs than I had ever thought possible.
Red went home many years ago, but to this day she remains the finest teacher I have ever had.
Her ability to anticipate what you wanted and get the job done—sometimes in her own way—never failed to impress me.
And yes, she still brings her owners gifts.
The little red dog that made me question every aspect of my career still owns a piece of my soul.
It turns out the missing piece was never another training method or a better skill set.
It was learning to listen.
All these years later, I still am.