It was when he was a puppy that I realised Mabon – my huge, goofy dog – was either born with Aspergers or else he had caught it from me. That became apparent the first time I took him to puppy class.
Now Mabon had been to the vet several times already and loved it. True, he liked sprawling behind doors that opened inwards, meaning nobody could either get in or out of the waiting room during the duration of his visit but, hey, he was calm, relaxed, and chilled. So when it came to needles…pah.
After that, puppy class should be easy I thought. Well…for the dog. I was dreading it with the same intensity I reserve for a Sunday morning visit from the Mormons.
On the designated evening, Mabon poked his head through the door of the class, saw a ragged row of other puppies doing things like chewing the floor, defecating, and pulling the ears off smaller rivals, and dug his heels in there and then. Literally. He had splinters by the time I had dragged him to the far end of the timber-covered floor. Once there, Mabon sat under a table with his back to the room. That’s my dog!
It was only once he’d been pulled out from the table three times and lined up to engage in the first exercise that Mabon decided to make friends with the dog to his left. He did this by sticking his face into that of the other dog’s. He had his nose bitten. But hell, at least that was a reaction. So he did it again. And got his nose bitten. This went on. Now you might think, stupid dog, but, in truth, it was his companion at the other end of the lead – me – who should have probably taken charge and stopped his poor hound’s nose being lacerated. But I didn’t. So we both stood there like Muppets. At least I wasn’t bleeding.
First up was a sit exercise. I said SIT nice and loud…and Mabon looked at me as if I’d finally gone completely insane. Next, I tried DOWN. Mabon yawned. ‘Try to get him to play,’ was the suggestion from the instructor. She gave me a soft toy, which I passed on to Mabon. He took it in his mouth, turned, spat, and said toy went sliding across the floor.
We then tried walking on the lead past the other dogs. Mabon was completely terrified and pressed himself so close to me it was as if I was wearing dog trousers. The instructor was impressed and we became the demonstration models for walking to heel. This means we had to do it twice more until Mabon started visibly shaking and was allowed back to sit under his table.
To end the class, there was a recall exercise. All the other dogs were brilliant and returned to their owners like bullets. When it came to Mabon’s turn, he had to be dragged from under his table to take pride of place in the middle of the room, all on his own. He hunkered down and tried to look inconspicuous, which was a challenge considering he was three times the size of the next largest puppy. I was at the far edge of the room and, feeling as much unease as my dog, called his name. Nothing. Not a flicker of recognition. I dropped to my haunches and tried again. Mabon shrunk even lower. Some of the others at the class started to make encouraging noises. Even the dog who has torn Mabon’s nose to shreds was rooting for him. Mabon did nothing. I called him again and again, my voice taking on the urgency of someone with Aspergers who had suddenly found himself the centre of attention and did not like it. Just like Mabon.
It was on the fifth call that Mabon finally looked up at me with such a plaintive, pleading expression that I suddenly saw myself in his position…in the middle of the room…with everyone staring. How could I have done this to him? I did not call him again. Instead, I stood upright and strode over to him, my footsteps echoing around the now silent room. Reaching Mabon, I picked him up, turned on my heel, and walked straight out the door.
We did not go back.
