You know how it is when you get preoccupied with some pressing
domesticity. You see confirmation of your struggle everywhere. Last
week, my friend Bill Croke wrote a column on this site titled,
“Clueless in Cody.” You see how I read that. Our dog Cody is
currently learning to obey the electronic dictates of an invisible
fence. Poor dog. He hugs the house on his walks outside. And he
won’t poop. He appears to have identified the yard as part of the
house.
“Business, Cody, business!” we urge him, using the word taught
us by the trainer from the fence company. “Business, Cody,
business!” we congratulate him when, after escorting him off the
property in a car, he gets to walk in his normal smelly semi-rural
premises, and, thus prompted, does his business.
Cody’s not the only one. My wife, finally fed up with changing
diapers, decided that our three-year-old had taken quite enough
time, thank you, to start using the potty. Me, I was waiting for a
clue, like I had with our older boy, who had learned the process in
about three weeks once the light of recognition appeared in his
eyes. Sally correctly observed that Joe learned things differently.
He needs demonstrations and experience. Lots of demonstrations and
experience.
And lots of support, too. Joe and I sit, him on the john, me on
a chair nearby, and we “play guys.” That is, we engage in mortal
combat with action figures with unspellable names like Dabora,
Goku, Bajeeta, Majim Bu, and so forth. I have tried to limit the
mortality by making up theme songs for the guys to sing.
Mostly this works. We have had only three poop accidents in six
weeks. So far, he has not quite gotten the notion of peeing when he
needs to. I’ve told Joe over and over about how proud Mommy and
Daddy would be if he would get up in the morning and go by himself
to the potty and sit down and have his morning pee. (The kid’s a
camel. He always wakes up dry.) But he still doesn’t get it.
It probably has something to do with how tough he is. On
occasional mornings when he sleeps in, I’ll bundle Joe into his
carseat while we drive his big brother to summer camp. It’s a
45-minute round trip, and, while Joe wakes up gradually, he still
stays dry. I don’t know about you guys, but man, that’s got to
hurt. And then we get to Dunkin’ Donuts and he pees.
Of course we reward him. Every Saturday, we go to the toy store
so he can choose some toy for a good week of potty sitting. Problem
here is, Joe has never had to make up his mind about toys before.
He thought all toys simply appeared, handed down from his older
brother. The cat’s now out of that bag. He takes a good half hour
turning over one package after another before deciding what he’ll
buy — always another guy — and then half a mile away from the
store, he changes his mind, throws the new toy in disgust on the
floor of the car, and declares that he hates it.
This changes again by the time we get home.
Cody, meanwhile, puzzled most by all the attention he’s getting,
settles in on Daddy’s feet under the computer, wondering when we’re
going outside again so he can get doggy treats. Here’s the routine:
We walk Cody on a leash gradually toward one of the temporary flags
marking our invisible fence, his collar emits a beep, and we turn
him around, praise him, and give him a treat. Cody learned rapidly
that this was going to happen and decided he’d simply cut to the
chase, sit down in front of me or Sally, and ask for his treat.
That fence? That beep? Oh, forget that.
The trainer came the other day and assured me we’re doing a good
job. I stood there, swaying under the machine-gun force of the
chatter all dog trainers spray around — how do they do that? —
and nodded numbly. She also guided us through administering Cody’s
first shock from the collar when he went too far.
And then she told me just to play with him in the yard for the
next few days. Play? All I want to do is go to sleep. Same for
Cody.
