If I said she answered to the name of Fluffy when we got her, that wouldn’t be true because she didn’t answer to any name, however ridiculous. In fact, whatever challenges it posed to my manhood, screaming “Fluffy! Fluffy! Come here, Fluffy!” was the least of my worries (though she had to be rechristened as a matter of urgency, obviously). She didn’t even seem able to walk properly when I first saw her at the rescue centre in Lincolnshire. All she was interested in doing was slithering along the ground in a mad attempt to fill her mouth with sheep shit, the more of the stuff the better. Sitting was not an option and as for staying or walking to heel, these were off the radar.

Never mind. As far as my wife was concerned, she was “adorable” and ticked all the requisite boxes in our quest to find a young, scruffy mongrel bitch. A long-haired white dog with a black patch over her right eye and a black rump, she looked as if she had strayed from a Just William novel. The fact that she was completely untrained was simply a minor inconvenience.

“She’ll need a lot of work,” Maggie, who runs Mill Hill Rescue, said as we prepared to leave. I should have listened to this ominous warning. It is the equivalent of an estate agent telling you that a property would benefit from modernisation.

Back home, it quickly became clear that the rechristened Maisie was not entirely house-trained. She might have had an inkling that it was preferable from our point of view to pee outside, but sometimes it was just warmer and more comfortable inside and that lovely old Persian rug looked very inviting.
Maisie 1 Justin 0

This was easy to solve. Taking a lead from my slightly old-school father (who did something similar to me), I rubbed her nose in it. It hasn’t happened again.
Maisie 1 Justin 1

Outside proved more difficult. Our corner of East Anglia is a playground for hares, rabbits, pheasants, geese, ducks, a tasty smorgasbord of opportunity for a badly disciplined dog. After our last dog’s freewheeling hunting expeditions in the countryside, which were the ruin of many an unwary pheasant, I had visions of the gamekeeper settling matters with his 12-bore. Maisie had other ideas. As soon as anything moved she was off, across roads, over banks and through hedges, reaching the horizon in a galloping black-and-white blur faster than you could say, “Maisie, come back!”. I whistled, I called, I shouted. Beseechingly, imperiously, furiously, pathetically. It was no good. She ignored me and returned only when she felt like it.
Maisie 2 Justin 1

It was time to call in the big guns. The local vet put me in touch with Helping Hounds School of Obedience, run by Louise Green, a professional dog trainer. If my father was old school, this was distinctly new school. Louise used only “gentle, motivational methods”, her website said, and “a caring approach to both dog and owner”. There were “no harsh methods” (was rubbing a dog’s nose in its urine harsh? I suspected Louise would think it was). Louise did not sound like someone who would ever recommend a choke chain or a shock collar to control wayward dogs, as a head gamekeeper at one of the country’s most famous shoots had suggested to me. My dog-walking priest friend used both. His dog, a bounding boxer full of beans, was impeccably well behaved. The shock collar concentrated his mind, shall we say.

Feeling a little desperate, I booked a basic obedience course of six one-on-one home training sessions. During our first lesson, Louise, a jolly, nononsense Norfolk woman, gave me some recipes for gourmet dog treats. I should rustle up some delicious liver cake, the ne plus ultraof training titbits, some cheesy garlic bites and other improbable delicacies. Was this a joke? No, she was serious.

“You have to make yourself more interesting to Maisie than whatever it is she’s doing,” she said. “You’ve got to stack the odds in your favour.” On a scale of deliciousness from one to ten, Louise rated the treats I was using, from a local pet superstore, as an uninspiring two. I moved Maisie on to extra smoky salmon trimmings and chorizo and she started to pay more attention. Maisie 2 Justin 2

“Sit” and “down” were relatively straightforward, slightly less so when I tried the commands without treats. Sometimes Maisie shot me a steely, coldly challenging stare and refused to budge. “She’s sticking two fingers up at you,” Louise explained helpfully.
Maisie 3 Justin 2

“When do I get to smack her?” I asked, at the end of my tether. Motivation was all very well, but what about a meaningful sanction? Louise looked horrified. She doesn’t go in for corporal punishment.

Very well, if Maisie wanted a battle of wills, I’d give her one. We’d see who blinked first. And if all else failed I could always take the drastic, last-ditch option of a shock collar (priced at a shocking £160. A cheaper version, made in China, is available on eBay for about £30 but looks as though it might barbecue the unfortunate dog). The training continued.

I started showing her who was boss, feeding her after me, making her wait until I had gone out of the door, sit before the walk began and so on. Particular naughtiness met with the occasional smack. We introduced the whistle properly, tying it in with smoky salmon treats. Maisie grew more responsive and the recalls improved no end.
Maisie 3 Justin 3

Six weeks on, she’s a dog transformed. She jumps up less, she sits, lies down, stays (sort of), relieves herself outside. Louise’s new-school motivation combined with a dose of old-school discipline has worked wonders.

I haven’t managed to curb the hell-for-leather hare chasing on the horizon but I have reached a Nirvana-like serenity about the whole thing. If she gets run over, she gets run over.

As Herodotus wrote so sagely 2,500 years ago: “Often enough God gives man a glimpse of happiness, then utterly ruins him.” God 1 Maisie (possibly) 0

— www.helpinghounds.co.uk, www.millrescue.co.uk

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