Annabelle has known her own name for quite some time now. Quite surprisingly and with considerable work on both our parts,  she now raises an ear ever so slightly, just enough to let me know that she is, momentarily at least, paying attention. If she is at a distance she will even look in my direction. This name knowledge has led us, as it was bound to do, to ever greater levels of challenge, the higher peaks of achievement so to speak. And the highest of these has to be –  coming when called.

I have learned, from he who knows all things canine, that my dog should bound toward me joyfully when she hears her name. Movement is a good way to encourage this. Thus I have found myself, on more than one occasion, dancing around, flapping my arms and jumping up and down to create the desired impression. Coming when called, I have also been told, should always be followed by letting go so that it is never associated with, for example, being dragged muddily back into the house when a neatly attired and perfectly pressed hoping to be MP approaches the door.

Which brings me back to the subject of little things…

I haven’t yet figured out a way to always make myself more interesting than the cattle in the next field, the coffee cup blowing carelessly across the road, nor the  exciting scent of I don’t know what from I don’t know where drifting toward Annabelle’s nose. Nor can I by relied upon to be more fun than the car pulling into the driveway or the various and sundry pats of I don’t want to know what left conveniently at the far reaches of the fields.

One thing I have learned though, is that the infuriating beast that could vanish in a second only to be found in some compromising position some considerable time later, is changing. And when it does happen, when I call her back from barking operatically at my neighbour and she turns to run full tilt, tail wagging, toward me – it is a wonderful thing.

A little, wonderful thing.

I bow to the dog, especially my dog, for the ability to truly appreciate the sight of snow. The day of the first  flurry is a day of joy for Annabelle only matched by the day when there is enough white on the ground to actually roll in. The sight of a large dog, on her back, kicking her legs in the air with barely an inch of snow beneath her, empties the mind of all winter worries. Even better is the day when there is enough snow for the field mice to make their  tunnels beneath it. When Annabelle’s nose senses one of these, it is a no holds barred race to find the tiny being that created it. She never does but viewing the tell-tale twitch followed by the race, nose to snow, leaving a tiny shoveled path in it’s wake, never fails to cheer me on a frigid winter day.

Dogs seem to me to be all about optimism. Snow you say? I couldn’t be happier.

Annabelle and I had to attain a minimal level of human/dog communication prior to facing this essential of appropriate dog behaviour. We had to master name recognition and sit before we could even approach the precursor to heel- the deceptively simple concept of circling to the left.

It was a frosty autumn morning in dog school when, while crouched over, my hand hovering, claw-like, above her rear end , ready to put it back where it was supposed to be, namely touching the ground, I called Annabelle’s name and saw a miniscule movement in one of her ears. Fearing an illusion, I called her again. Her ear moved again. We had name recognition. Not only that but she had managed to combine ear movement with rear end non- movement. It was too much for me. Filled with uncalled for confidence, I removed my hand from the space above her, stood and with all the authority I could muster commanded “Heel!” As I had long been instructed I moved my left foot forward in preparation for the circle.

One of the essential lessons at dog school is to envision what you want your dog to do before you ask them to do it. Another essential lesson is to never take your eyes off your dog. As I stepped confidently forward, my mind filled with the quivering ear of recognition, I missed the gleam in Annabelle’s eye.

There would be no circles to the left that day, let alone a walk at heel. No, it was a rather more haphazard path I ran, calling Annabelle’s name and trailing her leash as it snaked ahead of me through the crisp and slippery grass. I sat long before she did and quite unintentionally.

Annabelle’s favourite choices are most certainly tea towels followed closely by toilet paper rolls. She will also bring/steal socks, underwear, clothes of any size or shape, the proverbial shoes and a stuffed bear named Dudley who is almost as large as she is. Annabelle always brings/steals with incredible pride, her long tail wagging briskly.

Before I knew better, I would react to her thievery with an ever increasing volley of No’s while attempting to wrest said items from her large and powerful jaws. It was a contest I was bound to lose. Annabelle was and remains firm in her belief that to bring is all that is required of her.

I have since upped my game, so to speak, having been advised that the best solution is to ignore Annabelle’s presentation of these choice items . Over time, I am told, this willful ignorance will take the fun out of bringing. Which is why I sit today surrounded by a dressing gown, ball cap, washcloth and gloves politely deposited at my feet. Dudley would be here too but for the half closed cupboard door.

It may seem a simple thing. It was not. I have never seen a dog’s rear end move up and down so fast and with such regularity. Don’t get me wrong. Annabelle knew how to sit. It was the one and only thing she knew. In fact, she had arrived at my home that first spring day already equipped with this knowledge. She did not however know how to sit for more than a nanosecond. To Annabelle sitting meant touching your rear to the ground and then heading for the nearest most interesting thing, towing your handler behind you. And nearest is certainly a relative term. At dog school it could be the dog sitting quietly in front of you or the flying tail at the far end of the next field.

It was the unpredictability of it all you see , the never knowing when and in what direction problem, that kept me busy those first few months. It was in fact this very same problem that caused me to miss the first and most important lesson at dog school.

If, when you call your dog’s name, they gaze unmoved in the direction of some distant planet, there is a very good chance that they are not going to sit for you. There is also a very good chance that they do not view you as their leader. That is most definitely not a good position to find yourself sitting in.

The week before I had gone to a free consultation to see if this was the right place for Annabelle and I to begin our education. I had been told the basic ground rules. There were to be no choke collars ( good ) and no treats ( uh oh). Communication was the key here and understanding the way a dog thinks (very good). Upon learning a series of techniques, I would have a dog who would sit, stay, come, heel and drop down on command. I liked my trainer immediately and went home armed with the first set of instructions.

It seems to me now, as I parked the car on that sunny morning, that the other members of my class were already lined up, dogs sitting quietly at their owners heels. It is unlikely this was the case but back then driving with Annabelle would have slowed anyone down and we had arrived with only a few minutes to spare. It is also true that to me any dog who could remain still for an instant without lunging forward, barking and throwing its owner to the ground had attained undreamed of heights of obedience.

I attempted to make a good first impression. As Annabelle vaulted from the back seat of the car I pulled her back and began doing the one thing I remembered from my first informal lesson. To gain control of your dog and teach them to heel you needed to circle them to the left. By doing this, you would communicate to your dog who was in control and what you expected of them. I should be clear here that this is what I remembered, not necessarily what I was taught and this proviso should be kept in mind henceforth.

We circled to the left, we circled to the left again. And again. And again. I don’t know how long we did this. I only know that I was starting to get dizzy when a man called out to me  that the class was starting and I should bring my dog in.

It was not a good beginning.

I must make it clear from the start that for the first six months of her life with me Annabelle was under the well- founded impression that she was the leader of our little pack of two. Well, four really, if you count my two cats, but as anyone who has lived with cats well knows, they do not as a species generally subscribe to the dog pack hierarchy. Nevertheless, it had been clear for some time, to Annabelle at least, who ruled the household.

On this particular day I had yet again, in some bizarre belief that this was not in fact the case, let Annabelle off her leash. Why I still held this belief is now unfathomable to me but, well, there it is. She was sniffing happily in the grass within calling distance and although she had yet to actually come when called she had started to at least look vaguely in my direction. I considered this to be progress so when she suddenly raised her head and looked intently toward the calmly grazing herd, I was not unduly concerned. There was a fence between them after all.

It all happened in a flash. Fence you say? Not in her world. As I stumbled from walk to run she was already flying over that inconsequential impediment in full operatic mode. The effect on the cattle was, of course,instantaneous. They ran. I tried to clamber under, over, even through the fence. By the time I had disentangled myself from the barbed wire, they were all specks on the horizon.

It took me some time to catch up. I was running as fast as I could but looking down, wary of the dangers of slippery cow pats and unseen tree stumps. Thus it was that when I did look up and toward what I feared would be a cattle catastrophe, I found that everything had stopped. Annabelle stood facing, not a herd of racing cattle, but a tight, silent, impenetrable circle of unamused faces. When I called her, if I did, as there was not a breath left in my body, she wisely, if rather nonchalantly, backed up and panted in my direction.

We trundled back through the cow pats and tree stumps. As I disentangled myself and the now leashed Annabelle from the barbed wire and prickly ash at the one spot I could find where the fence was loose enough to let us squeeze through, I knew our time had come. There would be no more herding. There would no more canine supremacy. We were going to Dog School and we were going as soon as we possibly could.

I am very careful to keep food well back from the edge of anything. Annabelle, for example, is large enough to place both paws on the kitchen counter and delicately remove whatever is not locked into cookie tins or firmly fitting casserole dishes. Leaving a loaf of bread to rise on the warm top of the stove is an open invitation to return to a yeasty edifice collapsed and partly consumed. Cookies cool on the top of the fridge and turkeys see the light of day only briefly – a quick walk from the fridge followed by a manic form of stuffing and immediate delivery to the stove is the only way to ensure that there is no turkey to canine contact.

I have learned that the only way to ensure that all decorations and delicacies have been well and truly secured is by the daily, even hourly, inspection of  whiskered chins and paws. Even the most careful of cats cannot hide the self-satisfied facial grooming that follows an encounter with a pat of butter left carelessly in the middle of the kitchen table. It also takes some doing to deny the evidence of styrofoam apple consumption when greeted at the door by a dog with pink paws.

So I find myself again this year on twenty-four hour watch for the tell-tale licking of lips and the crunching sounds that should not be. I must confess however, that I wouldn’t have it any other way.