What Humans Learn at Dog School

I publish this piece because it asks what power, obedience, and care look like when no one is quite in charge — and when, instead of control, we are asked to connect, improvise, and collaborate.

Roberta, a vibrant and resolutely single sexagenarian, held brisk, well-tested views on men and dogs.

‘Just give ‘em sex or food, a pat on the head and send ‘em on their way. You do know, dear, don’t you? They can only hold one idea in their head at any one time.’

Usually that worked for her. This time, Shingy, her uncomplaining canine, had caught her out.

The day before, she returned to find her leather sofa in shreds, the middle cushion dug down to China, testimony to stored-up canine grievance. In short, she had forgotten him — and his beloved morning bratwurst.

She summed up the damage and threw a blanket over it. Never a fan of dog academy, she sought a place for Shingrix through her attractive friend Pamela, secretary of the local dog school.

Roberta, a former boarding school girl and hockey player often said, ‘Nothing vigorous exercise won’t fix.’

Well, not this time.

Roberta had rescued Shingy — as she usually called him — from the Lost Dogs’ Home. He was loyal enough and he kept her fit. She forgave what she judged to be his youthful peccadillos.

There had, admittedly, been a few incidents.

Like the time he’d trashed her vegetable patch in search of his massive slime-green bone.

Or when she’d had to chase him for miles along the ravine when he escaped through the gate.

Or most recently, the sausage incident.

That morning at dog school, Shingy sniffed the crisp, fresh air; he then dived at Pamela’s crotch with equal enthusiasm.

In synchronised motion, her hands dived in the same direction.

Roberta cast a discreet glance downwards.

Drool.

How embarrassing.

At that moment, another dog owner strode past, muttering under her breath, ‘Perverts’.

In that split second, her friend’s diversionary tactic sent him plummeting into a nearby doggie tent, where two impeccable King Charles spaniels billowed and yelped underneath a tangle of ropes and canvas.

Their immaculately groomed owner stormed up in a huff. She unzipped the tent, and the dogs spilled out barking and whimpering.

‘Dominance!’ she said, and the pair dropped at her feet.

‘For heaven’s sake, learn to control your dog.’

She shot a scathing glance at Roberta.

‘These blow-ins!’ she muttered as she strode past Pamela.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry’, Roberta wailed over her shoulder. What the devil do you think I’m here for, lady!

‘Oops! That was bad luck’, Pamela said.
‘Do you know who she is? That, my dear, is Lady King Charles, our president!...Oh well, she’ll get over it…Maybe just keep a low profile while you’re on probation…’

Roberta skidded over wet grass behind her large black Labrador, hauled forward in a frenzy of discovery.

‘SHINGY! DOMINANCE! DOMINANCE!’

Damn that woman. He’s got to learn sometime! Is that Pamela I hear laughing?

‘And…and…he’d been doing so well’, Pamela gasped, catching her breath.
‘He’s not two years old yet is he?’

Pamela — trim, of indeterminate age — patted Shingy and glanced at the golden labrador tied to the fence, its sombre eyes softening as its tail thumped hopefully.

‘So, where’s Pansy today?’ Roberta asked.

‘Now there’s a story my dear. I’ll need a cup of tea before I tell you about that,’ her friend replied.

The hamlet of Baringhup sat within a network of rural towns and villages in Central Victoria; a quiet village of historic buildings which swelled with campers and boaters on scenic Lake Cairn Curran during holiday periods.

Nearby, the Baringhup Canine Deportment School had acquired a small piece of land and subsequently built a neat, modest clubhouse.

There they met and drank copious cups of tea — its amenities block discretely situated in the furthest corner of the field — to the dismay of the older members.

Each Saturday morning, a systematic arrangement of posts, flags and obstacles stood to attention on the field, awaiting the approaching parade of owners and their canine charges, both categories coming in all shapes, sizes and ages; the human ones mainly on the mature side.

The participants shared one common quality; a certain alarming correctness.

Their mistresses — and a few masters — stood like good soldiers, lined up in front of a man in late middle age.

‘That’s John. The head trainer. He and Madame President…you know…they’re an item,’ Pamela whispered.

Oops. Double trouble.

The assembled dogs paced on the spot ready to pounce.

John’s hairy knees bristled below his shorts, his belt cinched tight enough to turn his torso into one solid cone of authority.

He presided over the session, starting with an explosive burst of the whistle.

‘Ladies!…and er..gentleman!’

Like artillery, the crisp man and ladies snapped to attention; dogs pricked up their ears.

And Roberta shambled forward in a lather of sweat as if towards some marathon finishing line, yanking Shingy along and trying to rein him in, his tail pounding a rapturous drumbeat against her legs.

‘Oh, John’, Roberta blurted, ‘you’ve all started already!’

He whipped his head around, looking her up and down.

She took a step back and straightened herself to ful height.

‘Yes…em..You are…?’

‘Roberta’, she squeaked.

‘Did you ladies miss the club email?’ He raised an eyebrow at Pamela.
‘We start promptly at 9 am in summer, 9.30 in April and November, and 10 am in winter.’

He raised his arm to tap his watch.

‘Emails? In Baringhup? You’re joking?’

Roberta burst out laughing.

John gave them both a stony stare.

‘Well, we need to start…if you and er…’

‘Shingrix to you. His name is Shingrix.’

Hearing his name sent the dog into another frenzy of excitement.

The human group shrank inwards like Venus flytraps as Shingy lolloped towards them at break-neck speed, his owner nearly airborne behind him — a big pink kite, shirt tails, hair and hat all in flight.

‘If you and Shingrix are quite ready!..’

His lips puckered like he’d sucked a lemon.

‘…You can go and sign in after the session.’

Afterwards, on the way to the clubhouse she said to Pamela,

‘Well, I have better things to do than sit staring at a screen all day. Whatever happened to a simple flyer on the noticeboard?’

Someone behind her coughed.

She turned to see John glaring at her over his glasses.

Her cheeks burned.

‘I meant…er…I’m a very busy woman.’

Oh good grief.

Roberta wrestled Shingy towards a nearby fence and secured him.

Head held high, she strode up the veranda steps and into the clubhouse.

She stared down several gawkers — including their president.

Their floral teacups rose in unison, obscuring their faces.

Alongside them sat baseball-sized scones loaded with jam and cream.

Roberta flashed a smile, scrawled the obligatory signature, and swept past the row.

Bunch of laughing clowns.

‘Well, Shingy did himself proud, didn’t he?’ Roberta said.

‘I’m hearing you!’ Pamela replied.
‘You forget that I just turned 80…’

‘Wha-a-t? 80! Seriously…?’

‘‘Oh, you’ve got your hands full with Shingy’, she paused a moment, then laughed, ‘…and ditto here for Hubby!’

She’s right on that score. A boffin geologist; very handsome. At least ten years younger than she is. How did she score that one?

‘Weeeeell…I should’ve known better than to leave Pansy at home with Hubby for so long. When I got back, the lounge was the total voodoo ritual: shredded paper, dog hair, splintered bones and dog biscuits. The TV plug ripped from the socket and scorch marks on the wall and the carpet. The site of an orgy for deranged people. Or animals. And Pansy nowhere to be seen.’

‘Oh my god. So, what did you do?’

‘I didn’t know which to do first. Kill the man? Call the electrician? The police? The RSPCA?’

‘Sooo…?’

‘No. I thought, if the cops think there’s some deviant sexual practices afoot, they’ll be all over us like a swarm of peeping toms,’ she paused. ‘Take it from me. Never call the cops.’

‘And? And?’

‘After I’d pulled myself together, I asked Hubby when he’d seen last seen the dog. He was still at his desk. You know…in ‘the zone’. Gave me a blank stare, said he’d heard a loud bang a while back, then the dog came in. Sort of staggering and choking. One cheek bulged like one-sided mumps. He fished around in her mouth, pulled something out. ‘Oh, she’d been digging’, he said. It was an old bone, sort of charred, so he threw it out the window. Then the thought came to him. Of course! The dog might be hungry. So he opened up the dogfood cupboard…’

‘Bored more like. Or got the shits with being left at home. Like Shingy and his sausage.’

‘Yup. So he walked back and must’ve forgotten to put the dogfood away. Then I said to him, so where’s the dog?...there’s scorch marks on the wall where the electric plug used to be, and all the dogfood’s gone. Next thing I was screaming you’ve killed the dog!’

‘Noooo…he didn’t? Did he??’

‘But no, I was wrong. I dragged Hubby out on a search party, expecting to find a cadaver. When we found her, she’d passed out under the house like a bloated carp in drought, half-digested dog biscuits sprayed around and the scorched plug beside her. She’d retrieved it.’

‘Oh my God! Never ask a MAN to multi-task!’ Roberta laughed. ‘Remember Margaret Mead’s Papua New Guinean women…or was it Samoan? They had sex, supervised the children and kept them from drowning…all at the same time. Can you imagine that?’

‘Actually, yes,’ Pamela said. ‘I’ve often done the shopping list in my head while having sex.’

‘You what?’

‘Well, it depends on how interesting it is down there…’

‘What do you mean, ‘down there’?’ Roberta choked on her scone, spraying her friend with crumbs.

‘Well, of course…it depends on which bit of you he’s working on!’ Pamela shrieked.

Roberta’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

‘Ah. Well. Gotta go now! Shingy’s expecting his reward. You know?…

His sausage.’

Text and Audio copyright @2026 Magz Morgan. All rights reserved.