Many years ago, I read a business book called The Opposable Mind about the human brain’s ability to “hold two conflicting ideas in constructive tension.” Translation: It’s about the power of AND. The author suggests that if you can hold two opposing ideas in your head, you can integrate the benefits of both ideas to create a better outcome.
I was reminded of this concept while working with Boyce, a young Rottweiler mix who came to us from PACC with a broken leg below his stifle (knee) and a torn ACL. He’s been holding the leg up for so long, it’s stuck in flexion, and his paw doesn’t reach the ground. Unfortunately, that isn’t his greatest challenge. Boyce is afraid of the world around him: the people, the sounds, the sights — so much fear. At one point, we canceled an appointment because loud car noises and a busy parking lot made it impossible to get him in the door without additional trauma.
I knew movement in the water would be great for his body, but I wasn’t sure I could convince his mind. Our first pool session? Awful. After a tense walk up the ramp to the deck, he spun away from me, off the deck, into the water, and nearly took me with him. NOT what I was hoping for. We stuck with it for ten more minutes so that fall wasn’t his last impression of the water.
We tried again a few weeks later. He had the same fear, but we made a little progress. We used the ramp to enter the water this time. Success! However, he never unclenched his jaw. He swam with an intensity driven by fear and uncertainty. We spent 15 minutes in the water this time. Some of it swimming, some of it resting and calming. As we finished the session, he bolted out of the water and up the ramp, propelled by survival instinct. He watched me closely as I walked up the ramp from the water toward the exit gate. He wanted to be with his person but didn’t want me behind him.
We waited almost two months before we tried again, and when we did, I stayed out of the pool room and let Katherine, my swim specialist, take Boyce in alone. There was no delay between entering the building, donning the lifejacket, moving up the ramp, and into the pool. When I returned to the room, Boyce was in the water and more relaxed than I’d seen him previously (okay, “relaxed” is a relative term.) As I watched Katherine interact with him, I saw what we needed to change to make it a better experience for him.
We needed the power of AND. We needed an integrated answer. I thought about his fears and made a mental list. It looked like this:
- being touched
- losing control
- uncertainty
- being vulnerable
- unexpected noises
- trusting strangers
- changes/transitions between situations
- being trapped/having escape routes blocked
His fear list was all about control. Each time we’d swum with him, we’d held his jacket and led him into the water, where he was even more vulnerable. We’d cut off exit routes to coerce him up/down the ramp and into/out of the water. We had asked him repeatedly to transition from the ramp to the water. The splashing water and heavy hum of the filter and pump had reduced his ability to see or hear other perceived dangers.
Next, I made a quick list of his strengths and things he did well. It looked like this:
- heightened sense of awareness
- quickness
- sharp sense of hearing hearing
- excellent communicator with eyes and body language
- strong muscles and body awareness
- smooth swimmer
- willing turns at the end of the pool
- able to position his body on the ramp for the next lap
- contemplative, studies the environment before he enters
When I thought about both lists, I discovered our actions fed his fear and stifled his strengths. For example, Boyce is an excellent communicator with his eyes and body language, but we weren’t listening closely enough. We were doing what we thought was best, not what he was telling us he needed. He didn’t want to be touched or controlled.
With a new-found understanding of his fears and strengths, it made more sense to use our proximity to him, rather than our hands on his body, to influence how he behaved. This is called spatial pressure. It’s a form of psychological force involving body language or proximity to create a mild emotional discomfort in another being. In our case, we were removing as much pressure as possible by stepping away and moving in the opposite direction from where we wanted him to move. This allowed him the comfort of control but gave us a way to direct his actions without physical touch.
Given more space and a more obvious movement choice, Boyce stepped off the ramp and into the water. A smooth swimmer, his strokes were extended with the front and rear legs—exactly what we wanted. He turned well at the end of the pool without coaxing; he didn’t try to climb out. He returned to the ramp and turned back around to face back into the pool for the next lap.
We also gave him some autonomy by allowing him to turn himself around when he reached the ramp after a lap. With many dogs, as they approach the ramp, we’ll guide them through a gentle U-turn, using their lifejacket to physically position them on the ramp, much like backing into a parking spot. Knowing that Boyce didn’t like to be touched, we allowed him to swim onto the ramp and turn himself. He rewarded us by executing a perfect land-and-turn on his own. His decision, his control.
When we gave him time to consider his best option, he gave us trust. When we allowed him autonomy, he rewarded us with a willingness to participate. When we gave him the physical and emotional space he needed, he rewarded us with an unclenched jaw, an open mouth, soft eyes and ears, and a loose body posture. He relaxed. He set his fear aside, if only for a few minutes. We understand now how to create a safe, comfortable environment for Boyce once he’s in the water. Our next challenge? To help him conquer the transitions from land to water and back again. One session at a time.
