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.
...
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.
...
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.
...
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.