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Open Door PolicySeptember 19, 2008 So far Travvy thinks that all open doors are open for him. I wish I were that bold. Travvy enters through open doors and helps himself to the resident dog's food, or goes upstairs where the resident dog is not allowed, or has to be dragged out of a first-floor bedroom by me, who is all the while thinking, What if someone shows up? Good thing this is Martha's Vineyard, where longtime residents won't think it TOO strange if they find you in their kitchen trying to collar your dog. The overwhelming majority of people I know don't have fancy security systems. They don't lock their doors. Hell, in warm weather they don't even close their doors. Which is why Travvy thinks the world is his playpen. Tu casa es mi casa: that's him. The other day we went trail-riding. Trav was great. He trotted along having fun, Allie trotted along having fun; I had fun knowing they were doing all the work. We went up the Dead Truck Trail, wound through the woods, and emerged on a minor tributary of the Stoney Hill Road, near the house where the peacocks live. For a moment I worried about the peacocks; I'd just heard of a dog who killed one. Trav paid no attention to the peacocks. Trav was, however, fascinated by the house just past the peacock house. Off he trotted down the fairly long driveway, big puppy on a mission, totally deaf to "Travvy, come!" "Travvy, COME," and "Travvy, COME." So Allie and I trotted after him. By the time we reached the front porch, Trav had gained entrance to the house, having wheedled and pushed his way past the five-year-old who came to the door. A second child of similar age joined in the chase. The mom of the house appeared with babe in arms. Holding Allie (who had noticed the grass by the stroller in front of the house), I called out assurances ("he's friendly, but he's only six months old") and instructions ("don't get him excited"). Shortly thereafter Travvy emerged from the house with a stuffed animal in his mouth. Allie was munching grass. I collared Trav, told him to sit (he sat!), clipped the lead rope to his collar, squatted down at eye level, and said, "Travvy, drop it." At first his look said, Ain't gonna, but it transformed into, Uh-oh, she's really mad. After about 20 seconds, he dropped it. I apologized to the mom, who was more amused than anything, mounted Allie, and rode off with Trav on his rope. It was my first attempt at Ponying the Puppy, and it worked. Allie was great, and even though the rope was only about six feet long Trav managed to stay out from under her hooves. The next day we passed a path that would take you to that same house if you followed it a few minutes and made the required turns. Allie and I weren't going that way, but Trav decided he was. He trotted off up the rocky hill. Allie and I trotted after. Apparently being pursued by a horse is a more serious matter than being pursued by a person on foot: Trav actually recovered his hearing before he'd gone very far. He sat. I tossed him a cookie, dismounted, put him on the rope, remounted, and rode home with errant puppy under (temporary) control. A couple of days later Travvy and I were taking our midday walk, a circular loop that passes behind the West Tisbury School and takes 20 or 25 minutes. In recent weeks I've been keeping him on leash a lot, partly because he needs the practice and partly because there are a few places, like the Baileys' house, where Travvy likes to go AWOL, invite himself over (and in, if a door is open), and see what he can find in the way of squeaky toys or uneaten food. Puppy on a search-and-steal mission can't hear "Travvy, COME," so the leash serves as a sort of Good Neighbor policy. Absent temptation I remove the leash and Trav trots along the path or the dirt road, drinking from puddles, rooting around in the bushes, and coming when I call him. Until, of course, he doesn't. He'd never noticed the newly shingled house back in the woods where three dirt roads meet: the Dr. Fisher road, what I think of as Halcyon Way Extended, and the road that comes back from the West Tisbury dump. I rarely notice it either, because there's rarely any discernable movement over there. Following Trav (who was, as usual, struck deaf by determination) down the path to the house, I was surprised by the kids' toys on the narrow band of lawn. Trav made a beeline to the small front porch around to the left. Sitting on the porch was, unbelievably, a big meaty bone. Had he smelled it all the way from the road? As I arrived, the door was closing: a young woman with long blond hair and a possibly German accent said, "He can have it." Oh, no, he can't, thought I, although the dog barking inside the house sounded way too small to do justice to that bone. From the start it was drop-dead obvious that the bone was far more valuable booty than any stuffed animal, and that Trav wasn't giving it up for anything as dull as a biscuit. Getting him to drop it took much longer than 20 seconds. It felt like 10 minutes though was probably closer to five. I figured I really had to win this one, and, eventually, I did. Now Trav stays on the leash when we go near that house. He's no dummy: a porch that once had a big meaty bone lying on it is a good place to visit, and maybe not a bad place to move in. That yappy dog inside didn't sound like much of a threat. It seems that I named Travvy true, or that Travvy is growing into his name: a Fellow Traveller can't be expected to take private property all that seriously. I think I'll nominate him for membership in Chiens sans frontières.
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