Halley and the cats: A successful adoption made possible through training, positive reinforcement, and patience

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It’s been eleven months since I adopted Halley; ten months since I last wrote about her.

Back then, I was despairing that she would ever become a permanent part of our family. Every time I’d sit down to write a post about her, we’d have another setback, another problem.

Most of the issues revolved around Halley’s relationship with our cats, which metaphorically speaking was like python and mongoose. Roadrunner and coyote. Seinfeld and Newman. Matter and antimatter. That is to say, awful at best, antagonistic at worst, and absolutely unsustainable. It was like living in a war zone.

Halley was most definitely NOT good with cats. The rescue group had told me she was okay with them, had even “tested” her with one, but it turned out not to be true. I don’t blame them. They tried. They had the best intentions. They did the right things.  (Read more about our first month with her, and her adoption story.) 

My dilemma was this: If Halley was going to stay with us, I needed to make sure my cats were safe with her in the house. Not just that they were safe but that they felt safe. That they could go about their feline business on any given day, eating undisturbed, using whichever litterbox was the right one for the moment, napping wherever the sunbeams fell, offering play-by-play commentary on the chipmunks and birds outside our windows, and demanding—and receiving—appropriate lap time with their humans.

But every time Halley saw one of my cats, she’d tense up, stare, and act like she wanted nothing more than to simply get them. I don’t think she would have intentionally harmed them, but she was obsessed with them, fixated on them, fascinated by them. The cats—who are both predator and prey—read that body language real well. Yet that was only the tip of the behavioral iceberg (among other things, which you can read also read about in my previous post, I Didn’t Expect Baby Nazgûl). She was Exhibit A in “What Barrier Frustration Looks Like,” meaning if she was thwarted from getting her way, she would throw a puppy temper tantrum, barking and pulling and jumping and running and flinging herself toward the desired object or creature (like one of the cats for instance) and let loose demon screams that would put fear in the heart of any living soul.

That combination of terrier-style obsession with an inability to self-regulate when thwarted was, to say the least, a doozy of a behavioral challenge. 

Halley needed someone who could train her, who could handle her issues, and who could help her be the best dog she could be. In the hands of someone who did not understand her, who did not use positive reinforcement techniques, who did not have the tools or skills to teach her, she would become uncontrollable. Reactive. Possibly dangerous.

So I was extremely reluctant to give up on her, to give her back to the rescue group. That would be one black mark against her, and if her next family couldn’t cope with her, she’d wind up back again—or experience worse things I didn’t want to imagine—and I simply couldn’t bear the thought of sentencing her to an unstable future. 

So I kept working with Halley. 

I talked and consulted with vets, behaviorists, trainers. I read dozens of articles, and bought several books on training reactive dogs. (I’ve listed some titles in the box at the end of this story). I took Halley to basic training classes. Socialization events. I brought her to two different doggy day camps, where I hired trainers to work with her on site. I had a trainer—Anne Macaulay of On Good Behavior—come visit us in our home (pre-COVID days; sigh) to help assess whether it was even possible that Halley could be trained to live with cats. Anne gave me a cautious, “maybe.” But she told me if anyone could do it, I could.

I studied everything. We practiced everything. Because I work from home (even before the pandemic), I worked with Halley throughout the day—always using positive reinforcement, catching Halley doing the right thing, and rewarding her for it—and sometimes rewarding the other inhabitants for doing the right things as well. 

Halley is the smartest dog I’ve ever known. She learned every command incredibly fast. Her challenge in training class was to ignore the dogs around her, and focus on me. And to handle the frustration of not being able to run around and play with the other pups. It was exactly what she needed.

The key to all of this was consistency.

Clicker training.

Countless high-value treats.

And patience. 

And baby steps. Actually, whatever is less than baby steps. Gnat baby steps.

For example, Halley sees a cat and is quiet for .5 nanosecond. Click. Treat. Then, days later, for 1 second. Click. Treat. Then, over time, 3 seconds. Click. Treat. Eventually, 15 seconds. Click. Treat. 

Halley looks at me instead of the cat. Click. Treat.

Halley can actually lay down in the presence of a cat. Click Treat.

Halley stays down in the presence of a cat. Click Treat. Click Treat. Click Treat. Click Treat. Click Treat.

That progression took months. Months of short, few-minutes-at-a-time training bursts, delivered mostly ad-hoc, when opportunities presented themselves.

To treat increase Halley’s frustration tolerance, we actually created more barriers, so she encountered them a lot. This was something the trainers at day camp did, too. She needed practice in being frustrated. She needed to learn self-regulation. That she could control her emotions; that delaying immediate gratification would result in a desired reward. 

So, at first, inside the house, Halley was either tethered to me, or was hooked up to a leash that was attached to a table—and that only happened when I needed extra hands.  There was never a second when she wasn’t supervised, except when we were all asleep. 

Due to her stress and fixation on the cats, I fed them separately. Brian gave the dogs their meals outside while the cats were served in the house.

At first, Halley was so reactive to merely seeing the cats that we had to block the sliding glass doors in the kitchen so she wouldn’t lose her mind when she saw the cats from outside. Note the chair with the blanket over it and the grill blocking the view.

At first, we fed the dogs outside and the cats inside.

Eventually, the dogs were allowed inside, but had to stay gated and supervised in the laundry room. Then they could be in the kitchen while the cats were being fed, but Halley would be leashed and attached to the faucet post. There she couldn’t see the cats (because our kitchen island blocked the view) and they couldn’t see her. She was taught to be quiet while I prepared dinner. To stay on her mat. How long did this take? Months. 

This was a lesson in patience. I only pushed Halley slightly forward in her training when I felt comfortable she had mastered one of her baby gnat steps. And I went backward a gnat step or two if she failed too often, letting her win, get rewarded, and feel confident before we tried a gnat step forward again.

Eventually, the cats got used to Halley being in the kitchen while they ate. Sometimes they would walk past her on the way to the litter box. I wore my treat bag in the house, and only took it off when I went to the bathroom or slept; a reward and a clicker were always at hand, so I could mark the desired behaviors when I saw them.

Other than meal times, for the most part, the cats hid when Halley was in the house. Avoiding Halley meant they avoided me. Athena and Calvin staked out the basement—a room Halley had no access to. Elsa Clair ruled the upstairs. I put a strong barrier at the base of the stairs, and also created a cat-safe area out of my daughter’s old bedroom, using our favorite gate that features a cat-sized opening, so Halley couldn’t enter the room, even by accident.

A barrier across the bottom of the steps enabled us to keep the upstairs cat safe.

Elsa Clair walks through the opening in the gate to my daughter’s old room, which was turned into a cat-safe space.

Dawn hid under the family room couch. This wasn’t the best hiding place, as Halley could smell her under there, and any time she was in the family room, the dog would attempt to antagonize the cat, getting close enough the the base of the couch to cause Dawn to growl and swat at the skirting.

This was endlessly amusing to Halley, but not to Dawn, or to me, so I spent a lot of time rewarding Halley for ignoring Dawn, and tossing treats under the couch to make up for Dawn’s unwilling participation in a puppy training activity. Months.

I missed my feline companions; they were always hiding. So at night, after the dogs settled down in the bedroom with Brian, I snuck downstairs to spend quality time with the cats. This also gave me an opportunity to assess how they were doing. My vet told me that cats are more resilient and adaptable than many people give them credit for, but I needed to be patient, to give them time. So every night, I played with them, petted them, scratched their chins, and provided laps for them to curl up in. They still loved me. They were all okay. They were managing. I could continue trying to make this work. 

I visited Athena and Calvin in the basement whenever I could, usually when Brian took the dogs outside, or when Halley was at doggy daycare. I also tried to spend time with Elsa Clair upstairs. I couldn’t do much for Dawn, who found her safe spot under the family room couch.

“Sunshine on my shoulder.” At night, after the dogs were settled upstairs in the bedroom with Brian, I came downstairs to hang out with the cats.

I couldn’t train Halley to be good with the cats if the cats were hiding and only making brief appearances during meal times, or when they could hear the silence that meant the dogs were outside. But this was an issue I couldn’t force. I had to wait. And hope. And be ready for a chance encounter between Halley and a cat.

One day, Athena wandered up out of the basement when Halley was sleeping. I rewarded her with treats, which of course woke up the dogs. Then everyone got treats. Halley was leashed, so she couldn’t reach Athena, and I rewarded them both heavily as long as Halley could stay quiet and attempt calmness. It worked! For only a few moments, but long enough for Athena to calmly walk away, back downstairs, instead of dashing off in fear.

It didn’t take long for our resident tortie to realize that if she ventured out when Halley was present, she would get snacks just for sitting around, observing the situation and offering commentary from a safe height on a step stool, chair or the buffet. This equated the dog with pleasant moments—and food.

Then one evening, Dawn didn’t retire to her undercouch lair immediately after dinner; instead, she curled up on a chair tucked under the kitchen table. This gave Halley practice in reducing her intensity when a cat was around. Halley got rewards for being quiet, for looking at me instead of the cat, exhibiting anything that looked like self-regulation. I also rewarded Lilah and Jasper for calmness and quiet. Both dogs are very attuned to household tension; as it increases, it causes Jasper to bark, sparking a cascade of events with Lilah jumping in the middle like an ice hockey ref breaking up a gloves-off fight, and cats scampering away in fear. My goal was to keep that anxious atmosphere from developing; if I could feel the situation becoming tense, I’d provide more rewards or add more space between the players—or stop the training session before it escalated.

At first Dawn was too nervous to accept treats while Halley was in the room, but eventually, as Dawn stayed out more and more, Halley began to calm down (remember those gnat baby steps?), and the cat began to feel good enough to enjoy the food.

At first, Dawn would only come out from under the couch when she knew the coast was clear and Halley was not in the house.

By then I was using cat kibble as a reward. It’s small enough that the cats could eat it, tasty enough for everyone, and each individual kibble didn’t have too many calories. To control everyone’s weight through this process, I cut down on the amount of food everyone received for the meals.

One by one, the cats started coming out of hiding, cautiously testing the environment, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. But with special treats involved (I normally feed my kitties wet food, so kibble was a high-value, coveted reward), they could come back.

In some ways, it became more difficult as now I had to be vigilant, knowing a cat could show up at any moment, and staying attuned to Halley’s moods, reading her body language to tell me if a cat was in the area that I hadn’t seen. This way I could be ready to grab or stomp on Halley’s leash, and pull a clicker out of my pocket for an instant unscheduled training session. At this point, I was training all four cats and three dogs simultaneously. If I didn’t have a clicker, I would say, “Yes!” and “Good girl,” which Halley understood was almost as good as a click, since —just like a click—those words would be followed by a reward.

Calvin and Athena would sit on the basement stairs, hiding behind the door—which Halley couldn’t get through because of the Door Buddy hook that keeps it open just wide enough for feline passage, but not a 30-pound puppy.

Athena finds safety behind the basement door, while Halley (and her siblings) learn to chill in her presence. Everyone gets rewarded.

As the cats got to the top of the stairs, Halley would sniff them, and treats were served all around. Soon, one of the kitties would feel brave and walk out into the kitchen. Click. Treat. Treat. Treat. Treat. Treat. Treat. Treat.

Sometimes I would sit at the top of the basement steps, giving treats to the cats who were hiding safely behind the door, and the dogs who were behaving well on the other side.

Often I would position myself on the floor with cats, giving everyone treats: often surrounded by all three dogs and four cats. Click. Treat. Treat. Treat. 

This is what training often looked like. Me on the floor with one or more cats on one side of my legs, and the dogs on the other side, while I rewarded good behavior with clicks and treats.

I thought that once Halley was able to calmly tolerate a cat’s presence, she could apply what she learned when the next cat appeared. But cats are individuals, with different scents and personalities, and it became clear to me she could differentiate. Likewise, each cat had to define their own relationship with Halley, what they were willing to tolerate, what made them run, and eventually, what would cause them to hiss and swat. So it was slow going, as each of the four cats, and Halley, had to figure out for themselves how to accept each other.

To be honest, I was thrilled the first time Halley got swatted. (Thank you Dawn.) Now Halley realized that cats had sharp and pointy bits that could be employed if she got too nosy. She wasn’t hurt (no blood drawn), but she began to respect Dawn a little more after than. It was her first lesson in how to understand the feline language, and that a growl and a hiss could presage an encounter with claws. This bit of information she did apply to her interactions with the other felines of the house: growl / hiss = warning.

As we took our baby gnat steps, I sometimes posted our progress on Facebook. But never here. It felt like if I posted here, it meant that Halley was staying, that she had a permanent place in our home. For all these months, I was not sure. I wanted to get to a point where I could trust a leashless, unattended Halley—and the two other dogs—to be calm around the cats. And I needed the cats to be safe, to feel safe, and to confidently go about their feline business undisturbed. Until then, there was always the possibility that I would need to give Halley up. 

This was another reason for my silence on the blog; it wasn’t just the loss of my dog Tucker, whom I was still grieving during all of this. It was the potential loss of Halley. The huge amount of mental and emotional space that grief and training took up in my head. And then, of course, the pandemic, which, while my family and I were lucky enough to avoid getting sick, nonetheless affected us dramatically here in New Jersey in the spring. 

I told myself I would write about our journey with Halley, when I knew for certain that she could stay. That there is, as we say in the Jewish tradition, shalom bayit, peace in the house. 

I finally believe we’re there. 

Dawn is rarely under the couch these days; she sits on Brian’s lap during evening “TV time” and hisses Halley away if she gets too close. And Halley (usually) backs down, though sometimes she offers commentary, which consists of little yips of frustration, but nothing like the Nazgûl screams of her early months. Still, Halley will come to me when called, walking away and leaving Dawn alone. Jasper has learned to temper his hockey-ref tendencies. And Lilah can’t be bothered getting involved anymore; nobody seems to be in danger so she doesn’t feel she has to step in.

Only a few months ago, I wouldn’t have imagined a moment where Dawn would be comfortable in her bed, while Halley jumped up next to her to look out the window. They have a mutual interest in bird watching. And squirrel watching. And chipmunk watching.

Athena will probably hold her anti-Halley grudge forever. She never forgave Tucker for being a nosy terrier, and she throws silent kitty curses at Halley when the dog has done something egregious, like occupy space. But she’ll come by when treats are being offered. Training hasn’t stopped, nor do I ever expect it to. And Halley has learned to detour around our tortie cat; again, she may complain about it, but gently, and somewhat respectfully. And at a safe distance. 

Athena rules. The dogs all know this.

I could never tell if Elsa Clair took notice of our dogs—any of them. I always thought that she viewed them as moving furniture, useless furniture at that, since she couldn’t jump up on them. But she actually sees Halley, will talk to her, walk past her and glance at her, even offer an exploratory sniff. I had been worried about her, since she had experienced some of the worst of Halley early on. I guess Elsa Clair is a bit more forgiving than her sisters. 

Elsa Clair is often curious about Halley—cautious, but curious. Until the dog gets bouncy, and then she hisses and off she runs.

As for Calvin, he stayed hidden for much longer than the other cats, so he avoided experiencing the worst of Halley. Maybe that’s why there’s a budding friendship between the two of them. After Tucker died, I could tell Calvin missed him; he would jump up on my bed and look puzzled and sad when his dog buddy wasn’t there. I’ve actually caught Calvin rubbing Halley, and while she’s a bit confused about the activity, she looks to me for approval, and stays calm. The two of them will often lie near one another on the rug in the kitchen, hoping for a treat or two—and I’ll oblige for such well-behaved creatures.

Halley is still a work in progress. In this post, I haven’t touched on the training I’ve done to help her remain calm and non reactive when there are other dogs around. To stop fence running. To sleep in a crate. To bark an appropriate amount at appropriate times. To allow me to brush her teeth and comb her coat. We’ve had tremendous success on all those fronts—each with its own baby gnat steps. We’re still working with Halley on walking near cars. And clipping her nails. And I think she’ll struggle with frustration tolerance for a long time. 

There might be treats involved.

But she’ll do that here. With me. In her home. Surrounded by the people—and dogs—who love her, as Lilah and Jasper clearly do. And cats who don’t mind having her around—mostly—and one (Calvin) who seems to want to actually be her friend.

One of the other reasons I was very reluctant to give up on Halley was because Lilah and Jasper liked her from the start. It had been obvious they missed Tucker, and I didn’t want them to experience yet another loss. These three feel like a unit—a family—and show genuine affection for each other.

Halley is home for good. 

Related posts:

Crate Expectations: Why a Crate is Essential for Your Pet #CrateHappyPets I Didn’t Expect Baby Nazgûl: Our first month with a new puppy Story: National Adopt a Shelter Pet Day Story: Real pets meet flat pets