My knuckles were white on the steering wheel and my shoulders tense as Gracie and I headed down the New Jersey Turnpike. If you peered into my car, you would assume that we were moving, from all the luggage, bags and boxes that were crammed onto the seats and floor, but in fact, Gracie and I were headed to dog camp for a week.
I didn’t know what to expect since I had never been to day camp as a child, much less sleep away camp, and driving an unfamiliar route to a “foreign” destination proved to be more stressful than I had bargained for. My biggest worry, though, was how Gracie and I could possibly fit in with a group of complete strangers and their dogs when Gracie was highly reactive to both.
The camp application was lengthy and detailed, and required me to be the same. Despite my misgivings, Suzanne Clothier, the brilliant trainer who conceived and directed the camp, thought that Gracie and I could successfully navigate the week of activities and programs, and accepted us as campers.
As our departure date drew closer, I became more nervous. “What if we can’t do it?” became a constant refrain in my head. Instead of feeling hopeful that Grace and I would deepen our relationship, make new friends and expand our horizons, I was worried about pretty much everything, from the close quarters of the cabins, to people respecting the space Gracie needed to be successful, to getting lost moving from one activity to the next.
In order to control my growing anxiety as the miles to camp shrank and our destination loomed close, I started talking to Gracie. During my motivational speech (for my benefit, since Gracie was fast asleep), it occurred to me that at any point during the week, for any reason, Gracie and I could pack up our truck and go home; we were both grown ups, with our own means of transportation, and we were not prisoners obligated to mark time until released.
As silly as it sounds, the idea that we could turn around at any point and go home changed everything for Gracie and me.
Because of that pep talk, I inadvertently gained the freedom to do what made sense for Gracie. If I needed to stand far away from the group of campers for Gracie to remain comfortable, I could. If a camper and dog approached too quickly, Gracie and I could move behind a building or duck behind a parked car. We didn’t “have” to do anything that made either of us anxious, but learn and grow at our own pace, instead.
I gained a powerful ability that I didn’t have before; the ability to walk away.
Gracie and I spent a lot of time on the fringes of camp activities, but that week proved to be a turning point for us. Camp itself was a life changing experience, and the campers I met are still my friends sixteen years later. Most importantly, I learned that I needed to be a better advocate for my dog, and if that meant standing apart from the crowd, not asking Grace to do more than she could comfortably handle or simply walking away, then I did it.
Even today, whether it be with my own dogs or the fearful dogs I work with at our shelter, I use the concept of distance (or walking away) as one of my most effective training tools. We don’t measure progress against anyone other than ourselves, and no matter what, we can always turn around and go home.
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