Here’s the Duck Toller back in 2002 when she was just a up.
She was consoling her Uncle Friar after his surgery, which was the result of a ski accident.
Fast forward, 11 years later.
Here’s an older, more mature Duck Toller.
She was consoling her Uncle Friar after his surgery, which was the result of a ski accident.
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The photo doesn’t show it too well.
But what you have here is a Duck-Toller retrieving her ball…while totally ignoring a REAL-LIFE duck just 10 feet away.
Way to go, dog.
Way to do your breed PROUD. :-)
Tipper, after retrieving those rubber IKEA balls for 5 straight hours…
To quote my sister: “She has no shame.”
I don’t’ claim to be a Dog Whisperer, but I do have a talent with dogs. They seem to like me.
I’m not their Pack Leader. I’m their play-mate.
I don’t give them “Exercise, discipline and affection”.
I give them affection. Play-time. And more affection.
I don’t keep them in a calm, submissive state.
I bring them to a hyper, excited state. (Much to the consternation of their owners.)
I am…the DOG INSTIGATOR.
Here are some selected mutts I’ve ruined for life:
Honey
When I was 10, Mrs. C lived across the street from us. She was a kindly old lady who lived alone and worked full-time, who didn’t have the energy or time to exercise her very active shepherd/collie dog.
So she gave me the key to her house, and I took Honey out every day and every weekend. We played with her till dark.
Honey was my best friend growing up. It was the classic story of A Boy and his Dog.
I never really corrupted Honey. But she was the first dog who ever really went nuts for me, And she sure did miss me when we moved.
She spent her remaining years staring out the window at my old house, waiting for me to come out by and play. It was kind of sad. She pined for me.
But we kept in touch. I still got to babysit her whenever Mrs. C went on vacation.
She would drive 120 miles out of her way, to drop Honey off at our house, rather than put her in a kennel.
Quincy
When I was in my 20′s, I baby-sat my neighbors house for a few weeks, including their Sheltie-dog, Quincy. We instantly bonded, and after that, he wouldn’t leave me alone.
My Stupid Quincy Tricks included making him sing/howl on demand, chase imaginary flies, and when I said “Fish!”, he’d lunge at the guppies in the aquarium.
For years after, anytime he heard my voice at home, he’d squeeze through the fence and invite himself into our house. I would always pour him Pep cereal into a bowl.
To get him really wound up, I would say all three things:
“Quincy…Fly…Fish…Pep. Fly…Fish…Pep! FLY FISH PEP!!!“
That was guaranteed to activate the launch sequence. Every time.
Eventually the neighbors would realize their dog was missing, and call out. “Quin-ceeee!. Where is he? Oh..he must be visiting Friar”.
At that point my dad would say “Quincy, GO HOME“.
And he would.
Until next visit.
Hansy
Hansy was a big lummox of a Bernese Mountain Dog that my other neighbors had.
I was first introduced to Hansy when he was a tiny pup. I’d wrestle and play with him and get him so excited, he’d go “Cracker-Dog” and start destroying baskets and furniture and such.
At that point, Mrs. H. would throw her arms up in the air, and leave the room.
I was such a bad influence, she said, that if she ever got a pup again, she would NOT let me ever see it, until it was full grown.
Now, the funny thing about all this was that Quincy and Hansy lived across the street from each other.
And they were both extremely jealous for my attention.
If I’d go to pet Hansy, Quincy would scream bloody murder. (Come play with ME, Friar!)
So then I’d go pet him, but Hansy would start yelping. (No! Don’t pay attention to him…love ME!!)
So then, if I’d stand in the middle of the road, not knowing which dog to go see first. And they’d BOTH go ape-shit, and the whole neighborhood got to hear it.
At that point, Mrs. H would open the door and yell:
“JESUS CHRIST! Will you PLEASE COME say HELLO to my DAMNED DOG so he will SHUT THE HELL UP!?”
Ahh. Nice to feel wanted, eh?
Basil
When I went to grad-skule, I lived next to a 100-lb Yellow Lab, with a thick skull like a cinder-block. He was big, strong, dumb, and lovable. I played with him almost every day, and got to be good friends with is owner, as well.
Stupid Basil tricks included the Fence-Pull:
Oh, and if I said the word “BOTH” he’d go nuts.
(As in: “Bass-hole…do you want the stick, or the ball…or…BOHHHH-TH? “).
That’s when he’d wiggle, snort, and do laps around the living room.
He liked to head-butt my chest. His perpetually wagging tail destroyed glassware.
Another good trick: whenever he heard me next door, he’d put his paws on the fence, and make a stupid plaintive yelp, calling for me.
It wasn’t a “Woof woof” or “Yip Yip” bark.
Instead, it sounded like “NEE! NEE!”.
Just like Monty Python. The Dog who goes Nee.
Of course, that’s when his owner would yell:
“For F*** SAKES, will you COME say HELLO to my STUPID DOG so he WILL SHUT THE HELL UP??
(Hmm…anyone notice a pattern here?)
Tipper
Goes without saying. I”m Tipper’s favorite two-legged person in the whole world (or so my sister tells me). And Tipper is my favorite four-legged critter in the whole world.
All it takes is for the word “Uncle Friar” to be said, and she’s ready for action. In fact, that’s how they ‘d coax Tipper to do things, even when I wasn’t there.
Like the time she was hiding under the van after getting quilled by a porcupine. “Come see Uncle Friar” was how they got her to come inside and drive to the vet.
Whenever I visit, Tipper is about the 180-degree opposite diametrically opposed from “calm and submissive” as you can get. She’s literally smashed through screen doors to come and greet me.
And there’s a mutual understanding. As soon as I walk into the door, there’s no saying “hello”, no having coffee, no taking off the coat.
No, it’s just YAP! YAP! YAP!
And the yapping doesn’t stop, until we’ve fulfilled our contract.
Tipper expects me to go out back and throw the ball. And I expect Tipper to retrieve the ball I throw. We’ve both trained each other this way. We feed off each other.
Doesn’t stop either. It lasts the whole weekend.
Even the next day, the dumb dog will have a bursting bladder from being inside all night…the rest of the house is already awake, and has finished breakfast.
But Tipper will keep lying in bed next to me, until Uncle Friar gets up. So play-time can start again.
And of course, there’s our mandatory Filthy Mud-Walks in the woods.
And when it’s finally time for me to leave, the dog grieves.
I’m told that after I’m gone, she lies on the bed where I slept, sulks and won’t move for half the day. She won’t even accept treats or anything.
Wow. Kinda flattering.
I wish I was one-tenth as great at that dog thinks I am!
Walter
Ahhh…my latest convert.
Walter is just a pup. Brett only got him a few months ago.
Dumb sack of shit, we (affectionately) like to call him.
(Well, to be fair, he’s still a baby). So it’s not his fault if he doesn’t quite grasp some concepts, like how to avoid falling over a sharp drop-off….
Walt’s only seen me maybe half a dozen times. But I’ve already planted the seed.
(C’mon…tell me you can’t see it in his face!)
It all started when Walt would be sleeping quietly in his cage when I’d visit.
Of course, that was just INVITING me to take him out, and wrassle with him on the kitchen floor.
Which he does, each time, with extreme enthusiasm.
Chewing on me, tail thumping, unable to stand up for more than 10 seconds.
He’s delighted. He’s having fun. (Who IS this guy? he’s asking himself. He’s fantastic!)
Then it’s time for bed. Brett puts the leash on him, to take him out for one last pee.
And that’s when Walt digs his heels in, and refuses to move.
Because he wants to stay and play with Uncle Friar.
So now the patterns’ been set.
Already, at that young age.
So now Walt now goes ballistic every time he sees me.
(Mua-Ha-Hah-HAHHH!)
Yet one more canine I’ve corrupted.
Like I said:
I am..the DOG INSTIGATOR.
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PS. I’m also the same way with kids.
A few weeks ago I had written that Tipper, my sister’s dog, had run away.
Back then, we were starting to get worried. She had already been lost for over a week.
Then there was a reported sighting, near a grumpy farmer’s property. Who was rumored to have shot dogs before.
That’s about when the sightings stopped, and we began to fear the worst.
Day after day, with still no word about Tipper.
Emotions up and down, like a roller coaster.
Then we started to accept that maybe she might be gone for good.
And we did our grieving.
It was like a lump in my chest that wouldn’t go away.
I felt like I had just lost my best friend.
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Well, my best friend is BACK!!!
Yesterday, Tipper showed up in someone’s barn, all miserable and bedraggled. Apparently the cats were teasing her, and she was too weak to fight them off.
The farmer had a copy of one of the flyers we had sent out, and phoned my brother-in-law. Within hours, Tipper had seen the vet and was safely back home.
The dog’s been MIA for 24 days. She went from 32 lbs. to 22 lbs. She’s a walking bag of bones, and totally exhausted.
Lord only knows what kind of anxiety and trauma she’s been through the past three weeks. I don’t even know how she fed herself.
But aside from being hungry and tired, the vet said she’s otherwise okay.
And of course, yesterday I had to get in my car and drive for a few hours, to go see her.
The first thing she did when she saw me was bark excitedly, and then go get her ball.
The silly mutt barely had enough strength to walk, but here she was, trying to lure me outside into the back yard so I could play with her.
Because that’s the special game that Tipper plays with Uncle Friar. And only Uncle Friar.
I’m not ashamed to admit, I just plopped down on the floor, and bawled my eyes out. Out of sheer joy and relief, this time.
Of course, Tipper didn’t care to notice. She just kept yapping at me.
C’mon Uncle Friar! C’mon! Let’s PLAY!
You stupid dog!
You stupid, lovable dog!
Welcome back.
What do most of us want, more than anything else in the whole world?
A nice house? To with the lottery? A fancy car? Our health? Happiness? Fame and Fortune?
Well, if you’re like the Duck-Toller I’m babysitting, THIS is all you want.
It’s a ball.
Not just any ball. It’s a rubber ball that you can buy at Ikea, three for a dollar.
And it’s the MOST IMPORTANT thing in a Toller’s life.
Because they want to RETRIEVE IT.
It’s why they were born…it’s their raison d’être.
To RETRIEVE the Ikea ball!
It’s actually quite something to see a Duck Toller fulfilling their Life Goal.
As soon as you bring the ball out, their ears perk up, they start to pant, and their pupils dilate to the point of disappearing. It’s like watching a drug addict anticipating their next hit of crack cocaine.
If you wiggle the ball in front of them, they start the Toller Dance. Shifting weight from one paw to the other, tail wagging. Waiting…waiting for you to throw the ball. So that they can RETRIEVE it.
And you oblige. Because the dog is so gosh-darned cute, how can you RESIST?
You throw the ball. And throw it…again and again. And again and again and again. For n equals 1 to infinity.
They’re so focused, nothing else matters. They don’t want treats. They don’t want to go to the bathroom. They don’t to be petted. They just want THE BALL!!!
Surgeons performing open-heart surgery should be so focused.
After umpteen tosses, you can change the game plan. Instead of throwing the ball, you can flick it with your finger. This way, they can get up really close to you, inches away.
And they’re so INTENSE…trying to block your path with their paw, waiting to spring into action at a nano-second’s notice, to catch that elusive rubber sphere.
You keep throwing and flicking the ball. Again and again. And again. Vrooom! They don’t stop. These dogs have LOTS of energy.
It doesn’t matter if you’re outside and the dog runs 100 feet. Or if you’re in your basement, and they run 10 feet…or even 10 inches.
Tollers don’t care. They just want to human/throw/retrieve interaction.
(My theory is the click of their teeth on the ball triggers a small burst of endorphins into their little doggie brain that lasts for a microsecond…Which is why they need to keep doing it.)
Eventually, the dog WILL get tired (but they’ll be the last to admit it)
This is when you have to be the pack leader, and tell them “TIME OUT!!! ALL DONE!!!”. After which they’ll reluctantly stop the game, and you go hide the ball in the freezer, so they don’t smell it and start yapping to play again in 5 minutes.
If you’ve accomplished your mission, you’ve exhausted your pooch, and they’ll actually rest for an hour or two, and leave you alone.
(“Better behavior through exhaustion“, they say about this breed.)
Unfortunately, it doesn’t last too long.
I bet you if I took the ball out of the freezer right now, she’d go nuts, and start all over again.
But I probably won’t.
Let Sleeping Tollers Lie. (Lord knows, it happens so rarely!)
Dear Duck-Toller;
I’m 28 years old, and I want to start a retirement plan. What’s the best investment of my money? Do I maximize my RRSP contributions every year? Or do I use all my extra cash to pay down my house as soon as possible? What are the tax implications?
Perplexed (Racine, Wisconsin)
Dear Perplexed;
I like to retreive balls. I like bouncy balls. I like furry tennis balls. I like the balls with the bell inside. Any type of ball will do. I like the way they smell. I like they way they bounce. I like the sound they make when they bounce.
When someone throws a ball, I like to run after it as fast as I can. Then I bring it back to them. Then I hope they throw the ball again. And again. And again. And again and again and again.
Oh, God, I really LOVE to retrieve!
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Dear Duck-Toller;
I’ve been married to my husband for 40 years. I really love him, but he has a serious gambling problem. It’s gotten so bad, that he blows his entire paycheck on the slot machines, and lies to me about it afterwards. Our life savings is gone. I’m afraid we will lose our house, or worse. My marriage is falling apart. What should I do?
Concerned (Yazoo City, Mississipi)
Dear Concerned;
I would like to retrieve a ball now. A nice, bouncy, shiny rubble ball. That’s what I would like. Where is the ball? Where? I think they hid them on me. I want to retreive a ball. I want to retreive a ball NOW.
I’m searching….Wherezit? Is there a ball under the bed? No. Wherezit? Is there one behind the couch? No. Wherezit? Is there one in the closet? …FIND IT!!!
No, wait…I FOUND ONE!!!! It was between the washer and drier in the laundry room, and dusty and dirty. It was stuck there for two years. But I FOUND IT….I FOUND THE BALL!!!
Oh JOY JOY JOY JOY!!!
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Dear Duck-Toller;
My oldest daughter is getting married, and I’d like her father to be at the wedding. However, he refuses to show up unless I invite his new wife. To tell the truth, I really hate this woman. She has never said a kind word to me and we dont’ get along. In fact, last time we spoke, she punched me in the face and told me to make her a sandwich. Do I have to invite her, or can I just invite my ex?
Mother-of-the-Bride (PoutineVille, Quebec)
Dear Mother-of-the-Bride;
I have the ball. I’m dropping it at your feet. (Pant! Pant!) Please throw it, so that I may retrieve it. I really REALLY want to retrive it. (Pant! pant!) For God’s sakes (pant! pant!) will you just THROW IT THROW IT THROW IT THROW IT THROW IT THROW IT THROW IT THROW IT THROW IT THROW IT !!!
