Far as I can remember, my family never invested in dog training classes when I was young. Not that we didn’t need them.
If there’s a single trait that’s defined the three dogs my family has owned, it’s character. That’s another way of saying wild. For better or worse, my parents have let every dog we’ve had be itself, much as they did the same for my sister and I, and while I think it’s an admirable gesture and a beneficial one in the long run (both for my sister and I and the dogs), it’s led to some colorful results.
Our basset hound Buster used to bolt after squirrels and once squared off on me when I took his lamb bone. It would’ve been less scary if I wasn’t four and shorter than he stood on his hind legs. Buster had a temper and would rear his head back and howl at the slightest provocation. We used to have give him tranquilizers when people in our neighborhood set off firecrackers at the Fourth of July and Chinese New Year.
The smaller dogs we had after Buster, Greta and Snoopy seemingly had tradition of barking at every animal that passed by our house. In fact, it was a sign of their impending mortality and a little sad when they stopped doing it.
I’ve loved every hound my family’s had, though it’s not to say some course at a dog training business wouldn’t have benefited them. Knowing my family, the dogs would’ve still been free to be themselves, perhaps simply with more refined characteristics and less bad habits. That could’ve been a good thing.
