reactive dog diaries
or i just want to punch everyone in the face right now
next time I see you Iâll give you a fucking present.
The words shout out all at once they bump and bite and jostle for position in the air, in much the same way as my dogs were doing, at the ends of their leads, moments ago.
It was the tail end of an exhausting, frustrating, defeating walk. I knew a reaction was coming. I only had enough time to clip the lead on the one remaining loose dog and not enough hands for the number of dogs that required positive reinforcement to prevent the reaction, let alone the time to evade it.
So I stand still, carefully open my third eye, and tune in to my silent inner monologue wordlessly singing kumbaya my lord, kumbaya as I take the advice of my dog trainer and let the dogs wear themselves out, pass no judgment, smiling beatifically until the reaction abates, until still returns, and I can reward them for paying attention once more.
In practice, this translates to standing in the middle of a boxing ring with your hands by your side as you let your opponent repeatedly punch you in the face, over and over.
Change my pitch up smack my bitch up, change my pitch up smack my bitch up.
I donât mean my dogs of course.
I see my future gift giver a fair bit in my local area.
His dog is as delightful as he is not. It dances around on its extending lead like a horse doing dressage while he walks next to it, stomping out threat like a policeman moving deliberately forward with a plastic shield to kettle a crowd. He is every monster in a horror movie, not needing to go any faster. He is Begbie walking a meerkat wearing a bowtie as it pipes out a jaunty tune.
Every time I leave the house with my dogs, I channel Liam Neeson:
I have a very particular set of skills.
Skills I have acquired over a very long career.
Itâs become second nature to scan my surroundings, to spot a trigger at a thousand paces. I know where all the escape routes are as I calculate how long it will take to drag us all behind the nearest bin. I propel my dogs on their leads as if I am driving defensively, knowing the rules of the road, whilst simultaneously figuring out what person will in fact, upon closer proximity, turn out to be the pedestrian version of a white van man.
Straight out the gate onto the path leading to the street, I spot my angry upstairs neighbour lurking around the corner. He hums with violence as he drapes himself over my garden wall, exhaling every puff of his cigarette with intense deliberation.
Out of control, out of control, weâre out of control my mind soundtracks.
I scan right to see a parked car blocking off the route forward between the bins. On the other available way forward, two men stand on the pavement as if in goal trying to prevent the final deciding penalty shot from hitting its target. We wait and wait and wait some more until it is safe to move. Weâve made it past the bins, just beyond the edge of the pavement outside my house.
I pause, take a breath and press the x button to start level 2.
The flashing cursor of our route is opposite a delivery van obscuring one side of the street. Just before we decide to commit, a man with a small french bulldog darts behind it. The van is maybe six paces long, tops. It should take seconds before we see them emerge. I wait patiently for the moment my newest reactive dog catches sight of them so I can good boy him treats in his face before he can bark back. However, the moment has other ideas, she knows that she doesnât have to pay attention to the space time continuum because she is the moment. She is the main character and she deserves to enter the scene whenever she so desires.
I wait so long I can only deduce that the dog has in fact entered the van and is patiently eating its way through its Tesco shop - meals on wheels.
Finally I give in. Iâve stood quietly for so long in the same spot that Iâm about to be powered down any second. At the exact point we walk on, the french bulldog
jump scares us
and all three dogs lunge towards the volume setting so that we must vibrate our way as far and as quickly away as we can.
Level 3 begins in a new world.
Itâs a sprawling, green terrain with multiple opportunities to explore at will, go off the beaten path and choose to do as many or as few side quests as we choose. Unfortunately the weather has been set to âload of dirty washing on permanent spin cycle.â
We successfully avoid several NPC off lead children being blown in our path with the wind. In a particularly difficult section we gain some bonus points for hiding from a terrifying free range doberman. The bonus allows us some new abilities, we are finally able to jump and catch and run more freely. I know that most players would have taken 20 minutes to reach this point and we are now an hour in, but it still feels good.
Weâre not exactly lulled into a false sense of security. Iâm too well aware that hard mode was activated before we began so well before the usual point I would, I lead up two of the dogs with selective hearing and begin our way home leaving the one reactive dog free whose high desire to please often counteracts her worse tendencies. I quickly realise it was a good idea to modify two of my party as our next mini boss is activated.
Itâs another small French bulldog who due to the aforementioned special skills, I had spotted and discounted as a threat due to its long distance from our party. I forgot about hard mode though. As we draw level it sprints from its previous position until it is suddenly feet away. At this distance, the people pleasing ability is unavailable. All I can do is grab the remaining dog by its collar as all three dogs throw vocal punches that fail to land. It continues to square up to us, as if deciding which special KO move he is going to select. Meanwhile, the mini bossâs players are stuck on slow mode. Their commands to retreat are ignored, presumably because they have neglected to take themselves off mute. Eventually they get close enough to drag our nemesis away. Alors they say to no-one in particular and I curse myself for the remainder of our level for choosing to apologise in response.
Weâve reached the final boss. Our present giver.
Thereâs not much more to say though. You already know the worst part. I could tell you that I deliberately averted my eyes ground-wards, to avoid any confrontation. This just meant he stood in front of me until I looked up. I could tell you that I resisted the urge to bat back the many fucks he was lobbing our way. I could say I tried my best to diffuse the situation, but it was all for naught.
Iâve been reliably informed now, by someone who isnât autistic, that my promised fucking present means a punch in the face. I spent too much time wondering why threats are always weirdly specific and illogical. Presents are good, punches in the face are not.
I really hope I can avoid him until the point that he has forgotten it ever happened. Until then I remain hopeful that if he does remember he will come up to me and give me this.
It would make much more sense.
And at this point in my life I really need things to make sense.