1 As I wash dishes at the kitchen sink, my husband, Scott,
paces behind me, irritated. ‘Have you seen my keys?’ he snarls
and stomps from the room with our dog, Dixie, at his heels. In the
past I would have turned off the faucet and joined the hunt while
trying to soothe my husband. But that only made him angrier, and a
simple case of missing keys soon would become a full-blown drama
starring the two of us and our poor nervous dog. Now, I focus on
the wet dish in my hands. I don’t turn around. I don’t say a word.
I’m using a technique I learned from a dolphin trainer.
2 For a book I was writing about a school for exotic animal trainers, I started spending my
days watching students do the seemingly impossible: teaching hyenas to pirouette on
command and chimps 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 is that I should reward behaviour I like and ignore behaviour 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.
3 I began thanking Scott if he threw one dirty shirt into the hamper. If he threw in two, I’d
kiss him. I was using what trainers call ‘approximations,’ rewarding the small steps toward
learning a whole new behaviour. 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.
4 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 behaviour,’ a simple but brilliant concept. Rather than teach the cranes to
stop landing on him, the trainer taught the birds something else, a behaviour that would
make the undesirable behaviour impossible. The birds couldn’t alight on the mats and his
head simultaneously. At home, I came up with incompatible behaviours for Scott to keep
him from crowding me while I cooked. I piled up parsley for him to chop or cheese for
him to grate at the other end of the kitchen island. Soon I’d done it: no more Scott
hovering around me while I cooked.
5 I followed the students to SeaWorld San Diego, where a dolphin trainer introduced me to
least reinforcing scenario (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 behaviour. If a behaviour provokes no response, it typically dies away. It was only a
matter of time before he was again 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. I felt as if I should throw him a mackerel.
6 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.
Then last fall, firmly in middle age, I learned that I needed braces. They were not only
humiliating, but also excruciating. 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 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. had already done the trick.
He’d begun to train me, the American wife.