The Puppy Chronicles: Muzzle Man

Some people will look at this picture of a muzzled Angus and say "Mean dog!" And some will look at it and say, "Mean owner!"

But neither is true. Angus and I are both super-nice.

Last fall, on the advice of a trainer, I bought Angus a muzzle. Angus gets terrified at vet appointments — something about being confined in a small space and having a stranger come in, maybe wielding a hypodermic needle, makes him cower and growl. Who wouldn't?

It's hard to teach him that the vet is a safe place since he only goes there once or twice a year. An easier solution, the trainer said, would be a muzzle.

People muzzle their dogs for all kinds of reasons: to keep the dog from eating random things it finds; to comply with regulations (such as taking a dog on public transportation), or to help keep a skittish dog under control. A dog like Angus.

So I bought a muzzle.

And, oh boy, did he hate it — at first.

Training a dog to wear a muzzle is no more cruel than training a dog to use a crate. It just takes longer. Thanks to me, it took Angus months.

I started by simply holding the muzzle and when Angus touched it with his nose, I gave him a treat. We did that a few times a day for a few days. Then we graduated to my holding the muzzle level with Angus' face and poking a treat through one of its many openings. Angus stuck his face into the muzzle, took the cheese, and retreated. We did this several times a day for many days.

Next came draping the strap over his head, just to give him the feel of it. He didn't like the feel. He shook it off. And this is where I went wrong. After a few days, I got impatient. I draped the strap over the top of his head and clicked it into place.

And Angus froze.

With the muzzle strapped on, he would not budge, not even when I held out tempting chunks of roast turkey and gobs of peanut butter. He just stood, head down, unmoving.

I gave up. Clearly, I was torturing him. I put the muzzle in the closet and prayed that Angus never had to go to the vet again.

But three months later, with his annual exam looming, it was time to try again. This time, inspired by advice on a helpful muzzle Facebook page, I changed my tactics. I made my voice sound thrilled. "Angus!" I squealed. "Let's play muzzle!"

And he jumped around with excitement on those big clown feet of his, even though he had no idea what I had just said.

Once again, we took it slow. When he touched the muzzle with his nose, I showered him with pieces of chicken and string cheese. When he pushed his head into the muzzle, took a treat and retreated, I gave him more cheese.

Again, I draped the strap over his head. Again, he shook it off. But this time I was patient, and eventually he got used to it. After several weeks, I clicked it into place.

And Angus froze.

But this time I called out, "Who wants to go outside?" and our other dog, Rosie, rocketed past us and out the back door. Angus forgot he was frozen; he chased after his sister.

After that, it all got easier. After clicking the muzzle onto his face each day, I immediately walked him around the block.

It didn't take long to get up to full walks with the muzzle. He trots along happily now, snuffling at the snow, looking for squirrels, accepting bits of cheese. When two ragmop dogs rushed at him and barked, Angus learned that a muzzle does not prevent him from barking. He barked back.

The vet appointment has come and gone and was so peaceful as to be a nonevent. But I still muzzle Angus a couple of times a week, just to stay in practice.

On quiet morning walks, he usually goes commando. But on weekends, when more people are around, I snap on the muzzle, load up with string cheese, and head out with confidence. It's like putting on a seat belt — it feels almost reckless without it.

I do wonder, sometimes, what passers-by think when they see a 60-pound dog with a big head and big feet, all muzzled up like Hannibal Lecter — does the muzzle make them afraid of him? Does it make them think I am torturing him?

The other day, a woman headed in our direction. As always, I moved Angus to the side of the path and made him sit. I fed him string cheese through an opening in the muzzle. The woman didn't say a word, didn't break stride, but as she passed by she gave me a big, crisp thumbs-up.

I was happy, but Angus didn't even raise his head. He was busy eating string cheese and being a Very Good Dog.

Laurie Hertzel is the Star Tribune books editor. She has been writing about Angus, her rescue dog, since he was two months old. • 612-673-7302