These minor annoyances are not the stuff of
separation and divorce, but in sum they began to dull my love for Scott. I
wanted - needed - to nudge him a little closer to perfect, to make him into a
mate who might annoy me a little less, who wouldn't keep me waiting at
restaurants, a mate who would be easier to love.
So, like many wives before me, I ignored a
library of advice books and set about improving him. By nagging, of course,
which only made his behavior worse: he'd drive faster instead of slower; shave
less frequently, not more; and leave his reeking bike garb on the bedroom floor
longer than ever.
We went to a counselor to smooth the edges off
our marriage. She didn't understand what we were doing there and complimented us
repeatedly on how well we communicated. I gave up. I guessed she was right - our
union was better than most - and resigned myself to stretches of slow-boil
resentment and occasional sarcasm.
Then something magical happened. For a book I
was writing about a school for exotic animal trainers, I started commuting from
Maine to California, where I spent my days watching students do the seemingly
impossible: teaching hyenas to pirouette on command, cougars to offer their paws
for a nail clipping, and baboons to skateboard.
I listened, rapt, as professional trainers
explained how they taught dolphins to flip and elephants to paint. Eventually it
hit me that the same techniques might work on that stubborn but lovable species,
the American husband.
The central lesson I learned from exotic
animal trainers is that I should reward behavior I like and ignore behavior I
don't. After all, you don't get a sea lion to balance a ball on the end of its
nose by nagging. The same goes for the American husband.
Back in Maine, I began thanking Scott if he
threw one dirty shirt into the hamper. If he threw in two, I'd kiss him.
Meanwhile, I would step over any soiled clothes on the floor without one sharp
word, though I did sometimes kick them under the bed. But as he basked in my
appreciation, the piles became smaller.
I was using what trainers call
"approximations," rewarding the small steps toward learning a whole new
behavior. You can't expect a baboon to learn to flip on command in one session,
just as you can't expect an American husband to begin regularly picking up his
dirty socks by praising him once for picking up a single sock. With the baboon
you first reward a hop, then a bigger hop, then an even bigger hop. With Scott
the husband, I began to praise every small act every time: if he drove just a
mile an hour slower, tossed one pair of shorts into the hamper, or was on time
for anything.
I also began to analyze my husband the way a
trainer considers an exotic animal. Enlightened trainers learn all they can
about a species, from anatomy to social structure, to understand how it thinks,
what it likes and dislikes, what comes easily to it and what doesn't. For
example, an elephant is a herd animal, so it responds to hierarchy. It cannot
jump, but can stand on its head. It is a vegetarian.
The exotic animal known as Scott is a loner,
but an alpha male. So hierarchy matters, but being in a group doesn't so much.
He has the balance of a gymnast, but moves slowly, especially when getting
dressed. Skiing comes naturally, but being on time does not. He's an omnivore,
and what a trainer would call food-driven.
Once I started thinking this way, I couldn't
stop. At the school in California, I'd be scribbling notes on how to walk an emu
or have a wolf accept you as a pack member, but I'd be thinking, "I can't wait
to try this on Scott."
On a field trip with the students, I listened
to a professional trainer describe how he had taught African crested cranes to
stop landing on his head and shoulders. He did this by training the leggy birds
to land on mats on the ground. This, he explained, is what is called an
"incompatible behavior," a simple but brilliant concept.
Rather than teach the cranes to stop landing
on him, the trainer taught the birds something else, a behavior that would make
the undesirable behavior impossible. The birds couldn't alight on the mats and
his head simultaneously.
At home, I came up with incompatible behaviors
for Scott to keep him from crowding me while I cooked. To lure him away from the
stove, I piled up parsley for him to chop or cheese for him to grate at the
other end of the kitchen island. Or I'd set out a bowl of chips and salsa across
the room. Soon I'd done it: no more Scott hovering around me while I cooked.
I followed the students to SeaWorld San Diego,
where a dolphin trainer introduced me to least reinforcing syndrome (L. R. S.).
When a dolphin does something wrong, the trainer doesn't respond in any way. He
stands still for a few beats, careful not to look at the dolphin, and then
returns to work. The idea is that any response, positive or negative, fuels a
behavior. If a behavior provokes no response, it typically dies away.
In the margins of my notes I wrote, "Try on
Scott!" It was only a matter of time before he was again tearing around the
house searching for his keys, at which point I said nothing and kept at what I
was doing. It took a lot of discipline to maintain my calm, but results were
immediate and stunning. His temper fell far shy of its usual pitch and then
waned like a fast-moving storm. I felt as if I should throw him a mackerel.
Now he's at it again; I hear him banging a
closet door shut, rustling through papers on a chest in the front hall and
thumping upstairs. At the sink, I hold steady. Then, sure enough, all goes
quiet. A moment later, he walks into the kitchen, keys in hand, and says calmly,
"Found them."
Without turning, I call out, "Great, see you
later."
Off he goes with our much-calmed pup.
After two years of exotic animal training, my
marriage is far smoother, my husband much easier to love. I used to take his
faults personally; his dirty clothes on the floor were an affront, a symbol of
how he didn't care enough about me. But thinking of my husband as an exotic
species gave me the distance I needed to consider our differences more
objectively.
I adopted the trainers' motto: "It's never the
animal's fault." When my training attempts failed, I didn't blame Scott. Rather,
I brainstormed new strategies, thought up more incompatible behaviors and used
smaller approximations. I dissected my own behavior,
> considered how my actions might inadvertently fuel his. I also accepted that
some behaviors were too entrenched, too instinctive to train away. You can't
stop a badger from digging, and you can't stop my husband from losing his wallet
and keys.
Professionals talk of animals that understand
training so well they eventually use it back on the trainer. My animal did the
same. When the training techniques worked so beautifully, I couldn't resist
telling my husband what I was up to. He wasn't offended, just amused. As I
explained the techniques and terminology, he soaked it up. Far more than I
realized.
Last fall, firmly in middle age, I learned
that I needed braces. They were not only humiliating, but also excruciating. For
weeks my gums, teeth, jaw and sinuses throbbed. I complained frequently and
loudly. Scott assured me that I would become used to all the metal in my mouth.
I did not.
One morning, as I launched into yet another
tirade about how uncomfortable I was, Scott just looked at me blankly. He didn't
say a word or acknowledge my rant in any way, not even with a nod.
I quickly ran out of steam and started to walk
away. Then I realized what was happening, and I turned and asked, "Are you
giving me an L. R. S.?" Silence. "You are, aren't you?"
He finally smiled, but his L. R. S. has
already done the trick. He'd begun to train me, the American wife.
Amy Sutherland is the author of
"Kicked, Bitten and Scratched: Life and Lessons at the Premier School for Exotic
Animal Trainers" (Viking, June 2006). She lives in Boston and in Portland, Me.
New York Times, June 25, 2006
