Ben and his ‘psychiatrist’

Press, 8 May 1980, Page 21

Ben and his ‘psychiatrist’

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DERRICK MANSBRIDGE

' I hope my dog never reads this article. He would growl and snap about it being a gross interference in his Canine Rights and probably report the matter to the ethics committees of the New Zealand Medical Association and the New Zealand Journalists’ Association. At least I can be sure he > would not report it to the Canterbury branch of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. Dogs suspect, with justice, that the branch has little time for them except as laboratory guinea pigs. Ben — that is' my dog’s, name — would. look disgustedlj' throughlimpid brown eyes at his Master in All Things for publicly revealing discussions with his psychiatrist. Well, he’s not actually Ben’s psychiatrist: more like a dog’s best

friend try to account for some of Ben’s irrational behaviour. In fact, there had been only one consultation to date — a toll call with me as the middle man, lasting some 20 minutes and costing a small fortune. (I was a little , put out to start with because I could not make up my mind whether to take the’call lying on a couch in the prescribed manner or on Ben’s sleeping blanket. Finally, unable to get comfortable for a long telephone conversation on either, I decided not make a farce out of something that was deadly serious.) . Disgusted ■ with me though he might be, Ben would have to admit that some of his actions are totally illogical. For instance, in some extraordinary fashion he has a deep-

rooted aversion to the sound of tractors.

He will pass the sniff of the day with any silent, stationary tractor, and never turns a hair at the noise made by aeroplanes, sheep trucks, pneumatic drills, lawn mowers, or pop bands. But moving tractors — aaaagh! Just at the sound in the long, long distance of a

tractor peacefully going about its business (and long, long before the sound reaches human ears) Ben goes berserk. It’s head down and nothing on earth will deter him. Not even the whites of a jogger’s ankles.

(He does not like joggers, either; no matter

whether they are noisy or quiet. He was once afraid of them, getting as far out of their way as possible, as quickly as possible. His “psychiatrist” says he has now matured somewhat, is feeling his oats, and might be taking revenge .on those who frightened him when he was a puppy.) We do not know what it is about the sound of a

tractor that turns Ben Jekyll into Ben Hyde. Nor at , this stage does his “psychiatrist.” We wondered if a tractor might have frightened him on some occasion, but his friend pointed out that Ben is not actually frightened by the tractor itself. Perhaps, though, the sound

that frightens him he now associates with something that once frightened him, say around the age of six to eight weeks. We did not have Ben until he was 14 weeks old, so it meant a letter to his breeder in Mataura. No, she replied, she knew of no noise that would have had that effect on him; nor of any occasion when he was unduly frightened by anything. :• Could it be that the pitch of a tractor’s engine shatters some sensitive spot in Ben’s ears? It could be, said his “psychiatrist.” A great believer in getting a dog to behave through rewards, Ben’s' friend suggested we use chocolate to get him closer and closer to a tractor, and more chocolate to keep him under control while the tractor passes.

Unfortunately, there is a snag to this manoeuvre. Ben hears the tractor long before we do and is gone before .we can disengage the sticky chocolate from our fingers or the chocolate from oijr sticky fingers. We will overcome this problem by going . out separately; me to find a tractor before Ben can hear it and my wife to bribe him thataway. While putting this into operation—there are some things even a love of chocolate will not accept willingly—l wondered whether a motor mechanic might be able to help. Fortunately, there was one just around the corner who was born to engines and did not need a toll call. But he was not much help. Tractor engines, it seems, are normally no more noisier, or more high-pitched, or more aurally destructive than anything else on the roads. I wish he knew how to pass on that information to Ben. I mentioned the matter to a farmer, wondering whether any of his dogs—even any of his cows and sheep—had been similarly affected by tractors. I thought he looked at me a little queerly; in any case he walked off muttering about “bloody city twerps” —or words to that effect. A friend who looks upon Ben’s troubles as his personal “Peyton Place” suggested ear flaps (for Ben or himself I never learned). They would not be our answer for Ben because then he would be able to chew away happily at joggers without knowing we heartily approve. Who knows where joggers get to these days! Probably the “psychiatrist’s” quietly-spoken aside will prove the most conclusive in the end—“He will grow out of it.” Meanwhile, we are open to a quicker, cure...