Carol’s Column

Animal behaviour consultant

The phone rang. "Hello, is that Mrs Lazar? This is Karin Landsberg." "Yes?" I responded cautiously for I didn't want the house painted, a new roof, a set of encyclopaedias or an electronic burglar alarm system.

"Your husband left a desperate message on my answering machine," she said. "I'm an animal behaviour consultant."

"No, our marriage really isn't too bad," I began blustering. "Oh, I know we argue and sometimes I say things I don't mean, but I don't think he's an animal. I've called him other things . . ."

"I think it's the puppies he's phoning about," she said. "Do you have problem puppies?"

"Problem puppies? No, no," I responded. "They're just puppies. They dig holes in the garden, destroy the lawn, eat the flowers, chew furniture and run away when you call them, but I wouldn't say they're problem puppies."

"Are they house trained?"

"Well, not yet, but I'm sure by the time they're 21, they'll be house trained. I think my husband's upset because they eat the newspapers before he's seen them. He can't run as fast as they do."

It was after this discussion, that Karin arranged to come to the house for an on-site consultation.

It was probably her flame of red hair that excited the puppies as they almost knocked her over with their welcome. Fortunately, the twosome are smallish, their mother definitely a Maltese, their father possibly a Scottie or a St Bernard.

Calmly, the intrepid animal behaviour consultant ignored both hounds, who immediately desisted and stood bemused.

Lesson one. "Don't interact. Ignore what you don't approve of and distract them if they're doing something wrong."

In the lounge, we got down to the nitty gritty. Names? Bentley and Ping Pong. Age? Seven months. Diet? Everything. Personalities? Adorable.

Throughout the discussion, Karin observed the fearsome hounds.

They were, she said, well adjusted, friendly and not at all aggressive. Probably, they were bored and needed stimulation.

In two hours, we discussed pack behaviour, interaction, correct eating habits, house training, and much else but it was when we came to submission that my husband perked up.

"It is obvious," said Karin, "that in this household, Rob is the dominant alpha male of the pack. They don't jump up on him, they respect him and they submit to his authority."

The dominant alpha male puffed up his chest and wagged his bottom. "Naturally," I heard him mutter.

Karin left us a list of practical suggestions, one of the most intriguing being how to concoct dog ice creams (put peanut butter into a marrow bone then freeze it. All dogs love peanut butter).

I'd been a little sceptical beforehand. No longer.

Almost overnight, Bentley and Ping Pong have turned from hooligans into model dogs. Since we began filling the holes with their droppings as advised, they no longer dig in the garden and they no longer chew furniture because they don't like the taste of the bitter lime and lemon spray we now use. For intellectual stimulation we take them for a five-minute sniffabout in the street and the memory of a strange flower, blade of grass or alien dog dropping keeps them intrigued for the rest of the day.

On a more personal level, I've learnt a lot. When the alpha male in this family becomes too dominant, I turn my head. When he asks me to make a cup of coffee while I'm busy doing my hair or plucking my moustache, I ignore him.

And this morning, for breakfast, I gave him a frozen marrow bone stuffed with peanut butter.

He's always loved peanut butter.

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