Back to School

I always did pretty well in school... until I stopped giving a shit.

San Jacinto Christian Academy was my elementary school. My father was raised Southern Baptist and he deemed it necessary I get me some Jesus learnin'. In addition to our daily Bible lessons, we had Chapel Day every Wednesday. The girls donned our Sunday best dresses and the boys all wore a tie. I always wondered why Jesus cared if we were dressed up or not, but the school demanded it. I earned a ribbon in every Bible Drill competition and was a regular on the A-B Honor Roll.

Shortly after my father died, my mother and new step-dad could no longer afford to send me to private school. At the end of elementary, I was plopped into the deep end of the public middle school system. These kids are different. Why are they all judging me? Why are my clothes important? I'd never been exposed to any “cliques”. One day, a girl named Katrina started making fun of my shorts, “Those came from K-mart!” So? It took me about a month to figure out the only reason she knew they'd come from K-mart was that her mom had taken her shopping there too. She was only making fun of me so that the rich kids wouldn't know her family wasn't. I don't think she ever evolved into a better person than she was in grade 6. Not many of the shallow people did.

I wasn't preppy, I wasn't athletic, and I couldn't play an instrument worth a damn so I stuck to studying. In my 7^th grade Honors English class, I remember staring across the room at my best friend, Hope. She was wearing a Tribute to Randy Rhoads t-shirt she'd “borrowed” from her big sister, and I was wearing a tattered Metallica shirt someone else had given me. We stuck out like scientifically abnormal growths in a sea of polo shirts, khaki pants and brown, leather loafers. I didn't fit in anywhere and thus, my disdain for the system began to grow exponentially.

I did so well in Science that my 8^th grade teacher decided I should skip a grade once I got to high school. By doing so, I missed the introductory year that taught me the basics of every following class. I wasn't ahead of the curve anymore. I was lost.

High School wound up being a completely different nightmare. People didn't just make fun of me for being different – some actually spat on me. Then there was the “incident” where 2 boys from the jocko circle tried to run me into the ground with their truck but they didn't know I was a ninja. “Die or fight back” was coming at me head-on and as the truck accelerated towards me, I jumped up onto the hood and grabbed the windshield wipers. Cursing through the angry foam that began forming in the corners of my mouth, I climbed up the windshield, jumped, and came crashing down on the cab's roof. As they sped away, I hopped off and landed on my feet, only to discover somewhere around 200 spectators. I wasn't worried about being vindicated right that second. I was scared, I was embarrassed, and more than that, I was PISSED. Unbeknownst to me, the two boys who – in my eyes – had just tried to kill me, drove around the corner and started bashing in the passenger side door and broke the headlights, then got every member of the football team, baseball team, basketball team and every other ball yielding sport to say I was the one who attacked them and caused every bit of damage. Then they called the authorities.

When my mother showed up to escort me to the principal's office to speak to the police, she looked at me and said, “What have you done NOW!?” Because I had no witnesses on my side, that was my introduction to Prozac and probation, coupled with additional psychotherapy. Needless to say, I hated school now more than ever.

From then on it was a struggle to keep my grades above failing. I started smoking, doing drugs and skipping school. I wanted to be anywhere but there. When I did manage to show up, I spent most of my days in the quarantine trailer out back for ISS – in school suspension. “We just don't understand why she's so defiant to authority.” It's not that I wasn't smart enough to ace my classes, I just didn't give a shit. I wound up in summer school, got kicked out, knocked up, and sent to the school for “special kids”. We were the rejects society didn't want to deal with any more.

The benefit to “special school” was that you could learn at your own pace. Naturally, this plan was developed for the kids with learning disabilities who had to take it a little slower but left to my own devices, I excelled. I felt more at home with the misfits. I finished a year and a half of school in 3 months. Against the odds, I finally graduated.

When I enrolled in Amarillo Community College at the age of 19, my outlook was slightly brighter. I had overcome my fear of being bullied and was looking forward to taking the classes I wanted to learn about. I lasted A semester. Who makes a D in pottery? This girl. Turns out, you actually have to show up to those classes too. In my defense, my classmates were a bunch of old bingo playing ladies who showed up maybe a third of the time. I was only following their bad example. It was a night class and I had other things to do. Anyway, I loved my psychology class. Wound up with a B. In government, my teacher was a staunch Conservative who didn't like me for sitting in the front row and disagreeing with him. Rather than take the F I knew was coming to me, I dropped out. So much for college.

Now that I'm in my mid-thirties, I've decided to give school another shot. Honestly though, do you know any teenager who made a sound career choice at their time of enrollment straight out of high school and actually stuck with it because they're still happy? I don't. They might exist, but I find it just as likely to stumble upon a unicorn.

When I made the decision to work with dogs, I had no idea where to start. A friend of mine named Jim works with the Dell City Humane Society and started giving me ideas. He's an animal cruelty investigator and I knew I couldn't handle that. I'd wind up shooting someone. He told me there were some openings at the Animal Control department in my area. Gahck. I don't want to be the guy in the uniform who goes to pick people's animals up just to take them to die. One day, he finally sent me the link that made everything click – Animal Behavior College. I did some research on it and enrolled that same week.

I finally found a career that would make my heart happy and fill my soul with the knowledge I was doing something to make lives better. And – bonus! - I don't have to take calculus or a trigonometry class in order to get my certification. It's a win/win, really.

Due to its title, Animal Behavior College, I initially believed my studies were steering me to be a Canine Behavior Specialist. Well, the steering's still there and I'm headed in that direction, but I'm just not on that particular road yet. The class I'm taking now is to become a Certified Dog Trainer. In order to work with dogs at a level beyond that, I at least have to be able how to teach them some manners. In addition to the “manners” portion of my studies, it actually has taught me quite a bit about other so-called behavioral issues. Your dog isn't “bad” because he's barking or digging; there's actually some psychology behind it, which, as previously stated, I find fascinating. Dog psychology is a lot easier to understand than people psychology. People create most of their own problems – dogs don't. People also create a majority of their dog's problems. Jumping isn't a behavior problem, it's a natural instinct to gain your attention. It becomes a “behavior problem” when you as a person decide it's become one.

When I started school this time they said it would take about a year and a half to complete the class. To begin, there are approximately 8 months of book learning before you move on to the hands-on portion of the training. The book was a 3 ring binder, fatter than any dictionary I'd ever seen. At times it was drudging (especially towards the end) but I managed to keep the bigger goal in mind. I finished the book portion a month ahead of schedule with straight As. My lowest grade was a 92 and I'm still positive that particular test included a trick question of some sort.

After I submitted my last test and essays for grading, I was contacted by a coordinator for the school. According to my contract, I was expected to drive between 100 and 205 miles to meet with a “Mentor Trainer” for the hands-on portion of my schooling every week for at least 21 weeks. Shit. As daunting as it seemed, I was dedicated to the task at hand. A couple days later the coordinator called me back and said, “I just found a trainer FIVE miles away from you!” Thank you, Mr. The Baby Jesus. Not only does that cut down on the gas money, I don't have to find a dog-sitter for my babies while I'm traveling unreasonable hours AND the “mentor trainer” I've been paired with holds multiple classes a week so I'll be able to double up on two segments of my three sessions and finish in 14 weeks instead of 21. YAAAY! (That last sentence has a high probability of making sense to no one else, but it seems perfectly logical in MY head.)

I started my first class tonight. ABC has strict guidelines as to your appearance, so much so that you're even graded on it. “Hygiene is VERY important.” Makes me wonder what kind of people they've been working with that they have to TELL you to bathe and brush your teeth. Got it. “Students must wear the ABC Student polo shirt provided in your introduction packet neatly tucked and belted into pressed khaki pants.” Ok, the polo shirt I get, but the khakis? First of all, I don't own any. Ok, maybe one pair but they're flared at the bottom and certainly not utilitarian. “Wear the lightest color possible to insure ALL the dirt shows up on them, and make sure they're thin so they'll rip as soon as rowdy little Fido decides to jump on you.” I wore jeans and crossed my fingers.

Class was great. It counted towards my “observation” segment so all I had to do was sit and watch. I happen to already be awesome at that. We had 2 students, both of which had already attended 2 classes; Durango, a 6 month old bundle of energy who looked mostly pit but could have had a little bird dog in him, and and older Scottish Terrier whose name I already forgot. Something like Buffy. Whatever. Both dogs were already pretty comfortable with “Sit” but we went ahead and went over that anyway. When Buffy wouldn't sit and her people just kept yelling it louder at her, I wanted to go over to them and say, “If you move the treat from in in front of her over her head, she'll look up at it and her butt will go down...” but this is the “observation” portion so I kept my opinions to myself. Then we moved to “Down” which is a little trickier. We also covered heel, focus, come and break. It may not be standard to have covered all those in one class but I'm happy to learn early.

After the dogs and their people were dismissed, I went to talk to the trainer. She asked if I had any questions and the only one I really had was regarding the schedule. Breaks for holidays and what-not. I also mentioned the khakis, hoping she wouldn't hold my lack of them against my grades. Not only did she not care, she said, “Look at what I'm wearing,” which was a blue hoodie, jeans and sneakers. “I stay covered in dog spit and since we use bleach to clean the floors, if it's wet, you're probably going to get it on your pants so please don't wear anything nice.” Thank GAWD. I also told her that my polo shrank when I washed it and it had become nearly untuckable. I'd never been so happy to see a person roll their eyes in my direction.

I can hardly wait for my next class!