A moment frozen on the brink
He sat at the start line - body quivering in anticipation. His eyes focused alternately on the first obstacle, a jump, and me. I had told him to stay, and even though excitement of the game caused him to stand on tippy toe, he didn't move. I had moved out past the first obstacle, and turned to face him, preparing to give my first command.
And at that moment, with both of us frozen for just a second, I realized that my little sheltie was on the brink of his agility career. At that moment, nothing had happened. He hadn't run his first course. There had been no mistakes - no triumphs. And anything was possible.
I had purchased my sheltie a year previous with the hope of not only having a great house dog, but also a demo dog for training students and an agility dog. As a young pup, he had shown all the signs of being a potential star in performance events, such as obedience and agility. His breeder had held him out to go to a home that would train him.
It was my lucky day.
I named my tiny sable-merle sheltie Aslan. Deepfork's Aslan, to be exact, and training started for the young pup soon upon arrival at my house. He was quick to learn and eager for food, which helped trememdously in motivating him to learn sit, stay, lay down and all the basics.
I also took him out and about often, joining a puppy class for socialization. I knew the importance of early socialization, and I didn't want my puppy growing up fearful. He also earned his Canine Good Citizenship Certification.
When he was a year old and physically ready for the demands required, we began agility training. He excelled at the sport, gaining confidence and speed with every session. Although we wouldn't know until he began going to agility trials, it seemd the little sheltie had a big future.
And then, there we stood at the start line - frozen for a second - hours and hours of training behind us, and an unwritten future ahead of us. At that moment, the little dog was at the cusp of his agility career. Nothing was written, and all was possible.
Then, I said, "OK, Over," and Aslan began writing his sporting future.
We did fairly well that day at the AKC agility match, lots of triumphs and a few mistakes. Aslan and I ran two runs. The first run, we knocked a bar, disqualifying us. The second run, we qualified and won first place.
It was a good beginning - a good first paragraph to a new agility career. I can't wait to read the next section.
A Champion's Heart
The first time I saw her, she was a shaking white blob of fur in the back of a cage. Her first two years of life had been hard. Physical abuse and neglect haunted her as a puppy, and now, she was abandoned in a strange shelter. Her eyes told me it was more than she could bear. So, I adopted her.
After I got her home, I discovered how truly emotionally damaged my new dog was. She had been left alone for hours a day in her crate. Her owner only let her out early in the morning, before sunrise, and late at night, after sunset. She was afraid of daylight. Afraid of people. Afraid of noises. In fact, she was afraid, deathly afraid, of everything - except her crate.
Socialization of puppies is essential. No one cared enough to take this white pup to a puppy class. She had never been taken out and about and shown a beautiful world. Because of this, "out and about" became a world to fear.
But she was beautiful. A pure-bred American Eskimo Dog - all white and silky. She even came with registration papers. I had dreams for her. I wanted to train her and show her in agility. I told my vet of my future hopes for the shaking white dog. "Well," she said, "I've seen miracles happen."
People say love will cure formerly abused dogs. And while love is a vital ingredient, healing - as full as it can come to such a dog - is obtained only through positive training. I knew this, and so off to school went Laika, the white, shaking dog.
Through positive, love-based training, Laika's personality began to slowly unfurl. I discovered my dog was an athlete. She was totally devoted to her family. She wore her emotions on her sleeve, and she had an incredible sense of humor and mischief.
Training results weren't obtained overnight. We watched as other dogs who started with Laika went on to achieve success in the show ring. But we were a determined team, Laika and I. We spent hours upon hours working, training, bonding and healing.
And finally, three and a half years later, Laika received her first title - a novice title in agility. It's not much, really, in comparison to most other dogs. They zip through their novice titles with only a little fanfare or recognition of the achievement. But for us, it's recorded evidence of one dog's triumph over adversity. It's three initials after her name - Laika of Deepfork NAJ - that prove the power of love.
I am extraordinarily proud of my white dog, and you'll have to forgive me if I brag a bit over this little title. I know what she's had to overcome just to face the world daily, and then to think she had enough love for me and love for the sport of agility to rise even further to achieve the three ribbons that represent the three little letters - NAJ (Novice Agility Jumpers). Well, let me just say I wish I had half the courage my dog does.
And, my experience as her owner has made me a better trainer. I am a more sensitive trainer - more in tune with my dogs. Laika has taught me - more than any other dog I have owned or trained - the importance of patience, love and gentleness in training.
When I looked into the eyes of the shaking blob of white fur stuck in the cage of the shelter, I knew what few could see. That inside that fearful dog beat the heart of a champion.
She's never proven me wrong.