I’ve mentioned that Gus came into my life as a grown-up dog. I did not name him, nor did I train him. He already understood how to come, stay, stop, sit and shake hands; he would lie down if convenient; he would stop sniffing someone’s privates if you told him to be polite. In fact, if there has been any training going on it has been the other way around. I have learned that when he woofs once it means, “The back door is shut and I want in.” When he woofs twice, it means “Where are you?” When he puts his snout on my knee, it means, “When are we getting out of here?”

Gus taught me these things. On a more general level, he has taught me how to enjoy a short walk, how to improvise games that have no winners or losers, or any purpose at all.

This, however, is not enough for some people. Lately my partner in life has been suggesting that I teach Gus tricks. Roll over and play dead? I’m not sure why I would want him to do that. Fetch my newspaper? Why—when I would have to open the door myself? Fetch my slippers? I don’t know where they are myself.

She looks at it differently: by neglecting to teach Gus new tricks, I am failing him somehow. Something is missing in the relationship.

My mate is not alone in this view. Some people, they meet a dog and their first instinct is to teach him a trick. In fact, Gus has tricks of unknown origin. At some point, out of sight, he ran into someone who taught him.

Take baby speak, for example. At my watering hole I saw one of the regulars, treats in pocket, get him to baby speak. It went something like this:

“Speak, Gus!?” “Rouf! Rouf!” “Good boy! Now...” (lowered voice) “Baby speak!” Pause. Gus looks puzzled. A bit of eyebrow work. “Come on, Gus! Baby speak... Baby speak...” “Urnf.” “Good boy! Baby speak!” “Urnf.”

So why on earth would anyone teach a dog to go Urnf out of the side of his mouth? Of what use is that skill? Clearly there are people out there who enjoy teaching tricks to other people’s dogs—not for any purpose, like herding sheep or leading the blind but for the sake of the trick itself.

A couple of weeks ago I discovered that my neighbor Claudette has been teaching Gus to tell left from right. After warm-up of general handshakes, it is something like this: “Shake! Good boy! Now... Left paw!” Up comes the right paw. “No, that’s the right paw. Left paw!” Up comes the right again. “No, left paw!!” Both paws paddle the air. “Woof! Woof!” “No! Shhh! Left paw!” Up comes the left paw. There are only two to choose from; the odds are in his favour. “Left paw! Goooood boy!” “Woof!”

And now comes the treat. Fine. I don’t ask the purpose because obviously there is none. What’s the next step—will she determine whether he’s right- or left-pawed and buy him a wristwatch? Some tables perhaps—which paw to clutch the bone during marrow extraction?

Only thing is, he seems to enjoy it too. Now I wonder if I am missing something.

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