 My memoir is sort of an accidental one, which came about when my family, under the relentless pressure of our 12-year-old daughter, adopted a very improbable and unpromising dog, subsequently named Como, named Gandalf at the time we got him. And he proceeded to wreak havoc of all sorts on our lives, particularly mine, since this dog was A, a master escape artist, and B, loathed men, especially me. I'm going to read you a scene about ten days into our progressive nightmare when we gave up our own control and turned it over into the hands of a dog trainer who made house calls that had been recommended to us. I had a brief call with him. He lived in a hait and had sort of a new age quality to him, which was a little unnerving to me, but we were desperate by this point, so we invited this fellow to come to our house. A few days later, Jake arrived, wearing jeans and a black leather vest over a faded, grateful, dead t-shirt with his long brown hair pulled back in a snug ponytail. Squat and moon-faced, he moved with a liquid, noiseless tread and spoke in the same level, soothing tones he'd had on the phone. I was struck by the fact that he didn't turn his attention immediately to Como, who circled him before moving in for a few exploratory sniffs. He was letting the dog get used to him, not exerting any pressure or expectations, giving him his space, as he put it. Phoebe, that's my daughter, and Sally, my wife, came downstairs and greeted him. We all walked into the kitchen together. Jake took a seat at the table, declined an offer of tea, and pulled a well-worn leather satchel from his back onto his lap. So he said, what's the problem? It was unclear from the way he aimed the question, whether he was speaking to Como or us. No one answered, which seemed not to bother him. He reached into his satchel and rustled around inside it. Como came over and sat in front of him. Cool, Phoebe said. How'd you make him do that? I don't make a dog do what he doesn't want to, said Jake answered, keeping his eyes fixed on Como. We're just trying to establish a connection here. Their collegial staring match went on for a little while. Then Jake reached down, and Como gobbled something out of his hand. What was that, asked Sally? Nothing, just a little smoked turkey. Alright, Como, he continued. Let's see if you feel like sitting. Can you sit? Sit, please? Como sat and got another morsel of turkey. Now that's my problem, I said. I just haven't been feeding him enough deli meat. Jake let my attempt at humor wither. Up, please? Up? Can you up, please? He walked at first, but soon got the message, as Jake rubbed his turkey-scented fingers together in the air. Wow, Phoebe whispered, so as not to dispel the magic. You're really good at this. Como was balanced on his hind legs, opposed we'd never seen. Jake kept him up there, milking the moment. After he let Como down, he slipped him another morsel. The tricks are neat, Sally said, and I'm sure we can have fun with them, but that's not our issue. Como really seems to be having trouble adapting, adjusting to Steven. She explained about the front door escape problems, and it delivered the damage report on our bedroom. This was Como having made his first numerous escapes and having basically savaged our bedroom when we locked him in there. Jake had shifted his posture now to clearly direct his therapeutic attention at us. Do the three of you get along? Okay, he asked, meaning Sally, Phoebe, and me. Any friction Como might be picking up on? Phoebe's eyes are highly attuned to that. Phoebe snickered a little, but shook her head when Jake raised an eyebrow at her, who knew what tales of family dysfunction she was itching to tell. Right now, Como's the source of our friction, I said, and immediately felt Phoebe's eyes on me. I mean, we're glad to have him in all. We just got to come up with some coping strategies. It's hard worrying that he's going to run away all the time. That or eat the house if we lock him up. Jake nodded and served up some generic advice that wasn't much different from what we read in the dog books. We had to be patient. We had to be clear and consistent. We had to repeat things and try to think like a dog. It's really very simply said, then. We're the ones who make it too complicated. Listening to his smooth patter, I wondered how it played out with his own dog and asked him what breed he owned. I don't have one, he said. I live in an apartment in the Hade and the Land Ward won't allow them. The surprise must have shown in my face. Wasn't this like a swimming teacher who never went in the water? Jake had a prepackaged answer ready for me. It's much better this way. I can be totally objective. I had only been half aware of it, but the whole time he spoke to us, Jake kept passing Como bits of smoked turkey with his left hand. I was about to thank our latter-day hippie trainer for his time when he came up with the last insight. Como doesn't bark much, he said, gazing down into our terriers' round brown eyes, and I haven't heard anything about him biting or nipping or anything like that. He's a gentle spirit, this little dog. The thought floated there in our kitchen for a moment. Jake didn't try to ring any more wisdom or advice out of it, and none of us contradicted him. He was right, and we knew it. For all the grief he'd caused us in the two weeks we'd had him, Como was anything but aggressive or hostile. Phoebe picked Como up and we all walked Jake to the front door. I wrote him out a check for $85 and opened the door. It was pretty clear that we wouldn't have him back for another session. We'd gotten what we could from him, but Sally told him we had his number and would keep him posted. Our dog, too, had taken his fill from the smoked turkey-rich meeting. Twenty minutes after Jake left, Como went into the study and threw up under the piano bench. Thanks a lot.