Behaving Badly. Isabel Wolff

take an hour and a quarter if the traffic wasn’t too bad.

      As I drove through Archway I passed Alexander’s road, heart pounding like a tom-tom, my mouth as dry as dust. Masochistically, I glanced down Harberton Road—for the first time since ‘it’ happened—and felt a wave of distress. But, once I’d got through the queues in Finchley and Barnet, I was soon coasting down lush country lanes; and as I wound down the window and saw the intense yellow of the rape and the fields of green corn, I relaxed—Daisy was right. This was a turning point; the start of a new phase in my life and I was determined to make it work out. Fifteen minutes later I came to St Albans, where I soon spotted the village sign. I passed the green with its horse chestnuts, laden with fading pink candles, then just beyond the church I saw gates. ‘Little Gateley Manor’ was carved on one of the pillars and I turned in.

      The house was just as I expected—straight out of Country Life. Georgian, painted white, and with a circular drive sweeping up to an imposing, rose-smothered front door. As my wheels crunched over the gravel, I heard a deep throaty barking, saw a silver flash, and the Weimaraner came bounding up. Then a woman appeared, running after it, visibly flustered.

      ‘Oh Trigger! You naughty boy! Come here! Hello, I’m Caroline,’ she said slightly breathlessly as I got out of the car, and the dog jumped up at me. ‘I’m so grateful to you for coming out.’

      I’m normally circumspect when I meet someone new, but I immediately took to her. She was thirtyish, with dark blonde hair scraped back in a ponytail, and she was attractive in a non-glossy way.

      ‘I’m so grateful to you,’ she repeated. As we went up the steps I inhaled the scent of the roses. ‘I’ve been at my wits’ end. You see, we adore Trigger but he’s such a handful, and in particular he’s horrid to my two Westies—Tavish and Jock.’

      I looked at them, scuttling round her feet in the black and white marble-tiled hallway, casting anxious looks at the bigger dog. ‘And they were here first, were they?’

      ‘Yes. I had them before I got married. But then my husband decided that he’d like a proper “man’s dog”—’ she giggled ‘—and so I got him Trigger for his birthday, but sometimes I think I made a mistake.’

      ‘He’s certainly beautiful,’ I said, as I followed her into the large drawing room. ‘They’re such individual-looking dogs, aren’t they?’ I gazed at his coat, the colour of pale pewter, and at his unearthly, intense, amber eyes.

      ‘Oh yes,’ she agreed. ‘They’re gorgeous-looking things.’

      ‘But they’re also strong-willed and need firm control.’

      Caroline laughed. ‘Well, that’s precisely where we’ve slipped up.’ She sank into one of the sofas and Trigger tried to clamber onto her lap. ‘Stop it you naughty dog! Get down! Get down will you!’ One of the Westies then jumped up at her, and Trigger snapped at it viciously. Her hand shot out and she smacked his behind. ‘Oh do stop it you bad, bad boy! Do you see what I mean?’ she sighed. ‘I wasn’t exaggerating, was I? It’s hopeless. Anyway, let’s have a cup of tea first.’

      As she disappeared, all three dogs running after her, slithering on the marble tiles, I glanced around the room. It was gorgeous—twenty-foot ceilings with egg and dart coving, in one corner a baby grand; two apricot-coloured Knole sofas, a scattering of mahogany tables, and an enormous fireplace with a marble surround. There were gleaming oils on the walls, and on the mantelpiece were several photos in silver frames, including one of Caroline on her wedding day. I looked at it, then looked away, glancing into the flower-filled garden. A solitary magpie swooped onto the lawn, chattering loudly. ‘One for sorrow,’ I said to myself quietly. Then I looked at the photo again…

      There was something strangely familiar about Caroline Mulholland’s husband, but I couldn’t for the life of me think what it was. He looked mid-to-late thirties in the photo, and his hair was receding and already quite grey. But he was certainly handsome—they made a good-looking couple. I found myself wondering what he did. No doubt he was a successful banker, or a captain of industry—perhaps I’d seen him on the news. Yes…that must account for my sense of déjà I thought: I’d seen him in the media somewhere. Caroline reappeared with a tray, then suggested that we had the tea outside so that I could see Trigger ‘in action’. But I’d already identified the problem—he was an over-indulged alpha male. He felt he should naturally be number one in the pack. He needed to have his status reduced.

      ‘He’s desperate to dominate,’ I explained, as we sat on the terrace, watching him with the other two dogs.

      Caroline put her tea cup down. ‘Is he?’

      ‘Yes. This might sound harsh, but what he needs is to be knocked off his pedestal.’

      ‘Really?’ she said. I nodded. ‘But how?’

      ‘By you taking far less notice of him. He’s a chronic show-off—if he’s got your attention he’s thrilled. And the more you shout at him, the more he likes it—because then he knows you’re focussed on him. You’re actually rewarding his “bad” behaviour by reacting to it.’

      ‘I am?’

      ‘Yes—you’re inadvertently indulging him.’

      ‘Oh. I see.’

      ‘Every time you shout at him, he actually thinks you’re praising him, so that’s going to make him worse.’

      ‘I see,’ she said again, thoughtfully.

      ‘I don’t like to anthropomorphize animals,’ I went on. ‘But let’s put it this way. If Trigger was human, he’d be driving round in a red BMW—which you’d probably bought him for his birthday—barging people off the road, ogling girls out of the window, then going to some party and getting horribly drunk.’

      ‘How awful,’ she said, with mock seriousness. ‘Like some silly “It boy”.’

      ‘Exactly.’

      ‘He’d embarrass us,’ she said, playing along. ‘He’d bring disgrace on the family,’ she added gravely. ‘He’d be getting into fights.’

      ‘I’m afraid he would. He’d be kicked out of school, he’d struggle to hold down a job and—I don’t want to alarm you—he might even take drugs.’

      ‘Really? ‘ She looked genuinely stricken. ‘Well,’ she added purposefully, as Trigger bounded joyfully about, barking his head off, ‘we’ve got to nip this in the bud.’

      ‘And we will. I won’t be able to “cure” him today,’ I pointed out. ‘But I can show you how you’re accidentally reinforcing his negative behaviour, then you’ll be able to work with him on your own. But you’ll need to be committed.’

      She looked at me seriously. ‘Okay. Tell me what to do.’

      I explained that the best punishment for Trigger was not to be yelled at—but to be totally ignored.

      ‘Dogs can’t stand it,’ I continued. ‘It’s the worst punishment in the world for them to be denied their human’s undivided attention—but that’s what you’ve got to do. And if he behaves really badly—say if he bites one of the other dogs—then he has to have some time out. Because if he’s tethered and the other two are free, that’ll really take him down a few pegs.’

      ‘I see.’ Trigger suddenly snapped at one of the Westies, then pinioned it to the ground.

      ‘Oh you beast!’ Caroline had rushed up to him and grabbed him by the collar.

      ‘No, don’t say anything,’ I said. ‘Simply tie him up somewhere.’

      ‘Tie him up?’

      ‘Yes. I know it sounds unkind, but it’s not.’

      Caroline disappeared for a moment, then reappeared with Trigger’s lead. Then