The Way of the Dog

The Art of Making Success Inevitable

Geoffrey Burch, Geoff Burch

• Publisher: Capstone
• Year: 2011
• Print ISBN: 9781841125763
• eBook ISBN: 9781119950080
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Business
• Subtopic: Sales
• Index: Business

The Way of the Dog is a self-help classic. It tells the story of failed salesman, Derek Stubbins, who wanders into a brothers Grimm nightmare and gets turned into a dog. He has to learn the way of the dog to get by. He has to develop the simple, clear way of thinking that a sheepdog has for its task. In doing so, he finds that he can achieve any goal he desires. It is the perfect pathway to success.

Why a dog? A dog has only two states of thought, which are happy, and waiting to be happy. When it has a task to do, it sees the beginning and the end. It doesn't become anxious or depressed at the size of the job, but just undertakes it and deals with obstacles as they come. It always succeeds.
Geoff Burch taps into the core of great personal development writing in The Way of the Dog. He focuses on the two big questions - what do you want to do with your life and how do you do it? By following the way of the dog, each obstacle in your path is dealt with unfailingly, one at a time. And if you don't know where you're going or what you need to make you happy, the sheepdog will show you how to recognise a sheep and not to waste time with goats. The Way of the Dog offers timeless, accessible, fast-paced, funny and memorable advice. Inspiring lifestyle wisdom is brought out through simple storytelling.

Plan your course through life and overcome every obstacle in your path by adopting The Way of the Dog's route map to success. Unlike the instructions in flat-pack furniture, anyone can understand it, it is easy to do, and the outcome will not be a surprise or a disappointment. The Way of the Dog contains the secrets of success.

The Way of the Dog GEOFF BURCH

AS HE TRUDGED THROUGH THE RAIN with his case of samples, Derek Stubbins knew that he wasn't a failure. He was a success that people had failed to acknowledge; he was a success that events had conspired to thwart; he was a millionaire in waiting; he just hadn't had the lucky breaks that a lot of his colleagues had received. Hadn't he run his own hugely successful hand-made chocolate business, until it had gone bust before anyone had given it a chance? That wasn't his fault either, it was the recession. Of course, other similar enterprises had succeeded but they had insider information that Derek had never been privy to. He would make such a great millionaire as well - he felt that he was born to it. His natural talent was the management and spending of a large fortune. Being stuck with the paltry money that he currently earned was what caused the difficulties. If someone could just wave a magic wand and make him fabulously rich, he could show his real worth - his ability to be a magnanimous gentleman, lavishing luxury on the poor! He could demonstrate his forgiving nature by even helping his enemies, and all those who put him down and failed to acknowledge his true gifts.

The cold puddles ebbed and flowed from the hole in his shoe, and he gave a grim smile as he thought of the famous Irishman giving directions, ‘If I was you, I wouldn't start from here!’ Exactly, he shouldn't start from here. No man could start from here. A wife who was in despair at the state of their home and finances, kids who treated him with contempt, friends who not only failed to accept his status but who obviously whispered to each other that he was a prat, and now this awful job selling double glazing. OK, he was a great salesman, it was just that customers failed to respond positively. They were so slow, so thick, so tiresome. Maybe his impatience with them showed a little bit, but he felt that he hid it well. The truth was that he should be in management, it was here that his abilities lay, if only his short-sighted bosses could see it. He was too talented and intelligent to be in the front line. Of course, when you had an IQ the size of his, you would become bored with the mundane chore of order taking. With a team to lead and inspire, things would be different - the challenge of leading by example, bringing on the less able, group meetings where they would hang on his every word. As it was, he was on final warning to be fired. FIRED! That's a good one - fired from a scabby, commission-only job that no one wanted to do. Just because it had been a while since he had sold anything. That wasn't his fault either. His enemies at the office had clearly lumbered him with the worst territory. He was tempted to chuck his sample case over the nearest hedge and go home, but telling the family that yet another hope had died was probably straying into last-straw territory.

On and on he walked, through an estate of modest houses; there was no point in calling on them, they wouldn't have the money. Then there was a road of huge detached houses, even less point with them; they set the dogs on itinerant salespeople. On and on he walked, stumping, sighing, and feeling down; on and on until he had left the town completely. He wandered through miles of countryside without a house in sight. Part of him felt anxious about the lack of potential customers, and the bigger part felt relieved that he would not have to confront any more belligerent strangers. The road led into a large, dark forest, which meant more walking and even less chance of having to do his awful job. On he went, trying to convince himself that he was ‘prospecting’ for business. The sunlight vanished behind him as he walked deeper and deeper into the forest. Not a house to be seen, until he came to a clearing. There, in front of him, was the strangest house he had ever seen. It was a quaint thatched cottage, which wasn't so much thatched as iced (like a cake that is), and the colours ... the door pillars were red and white stripes, the walls were pink, and sort of drippy. Strangest of all were the windows. They seemed to be a patchwork of transparent and semi-transparent stuff. It wasn't glass, it wasn't plastic, it was, well, just stuff! Finally, an opportunity to sell the delights of extruded PVC home improvements.

Derek opened the gate in the small picket fence, which seemed, disconcertingly, to be made of small human bones. He decided that this was unlikely and that it was some kind of trendy garden makeover stunt. The front door was decorated with a brightly painted red gargoyle that, through some clever mechanism like the singing fish thing that everybody gets at Christmas, actually snapped its needle sharp teeth at him and then started yelling, ‘There's somebody at the door! There's somebody at the door!’

When the door opened, Derek's breath was taken away as a bent old woman of stunning ugliness stood before him. Should he run? The strategy of running away from faintly dodgy or intimidating customers had always stood him in good stead in the past. No, of course not, this was just a dotty old lady who, with eyes like old hard boiled eggs, would be very unlikely to read his somewhat ambiguous contract.

‘Good morning Madam, you have been selected to ...’

‘How nice,’ interrupted the old crone with a very disconcerting smile. One would expect such an elderly, worn-out creature to not have a tooth in her head, but the reverse was the case. In fact she had a lot more teeth than seemed necessary. The thing that spooked Derek was how swiftly and unbidden the word ‘shark’ sprang to mind.

‘Do come in and tell me all about it, we will have a nice hot drink and a sit down so that I can listen to what you have to say.’

Derek's nerves at this point were on the verge of making his legs work like pistons to carry him very swiftly away from this place, but the old lady took his arm with a vice-like grip. She led him to the kitchen, which was dominated by the largest microwave he had ever seen; it was the size of a telephone kiosk. Unable to think of anything sensible to say, he blurted, ‘What a big microwave you have!’

To which she replied, ‘All the better to cook ... er um ahem,’ coughing the last few words into her hand. ‘Never mind that, do sit down.’

She placed a steaming cup in front of him and he called to mind the advice in his favourite techniques book Sell to be Great, which said, never accept a hot drink from a prospective customer. He had never understood why, until now. Was it that bilious shade of green? Was it the fact that it continued to bubble and steam? No, he decided it was definitely the eye gazing back at him from the frothing liquor that disconcerted him the most.¹

‘OK,’ the old lady said, ‘what have you got to show me?’

He vaguely remembered that perhaps he should have been asking the questions, but then what did that matter, it was time to start his ‘dem’ (the demonstration). He had a lovely ‘dem’, it was like theatre, and it was balletic in its verbal choreography. In short, Derek knew that, given the chance, his dem was irresistible. He got out his sample window. He hit it with his silver hammer to show its unparalleled strength (this, to Derek's horror, produced a hair line crack in the glass, but he was sure the old bat wouldn't notice). He opened it and slammed it to show off the ‘Eeezee Glide’ hinges. He punctuated every sentence with, ‘wouldn't you agree?’ just as the book said. He wasn't sure why, but Derek was determined to stick to the script. About a quarter way through, the old woman, who had appeared to be dozing, snapped upright and announced, ‘You're pretty crap at this, aren't you?’

Derek was speechless with shock. ‘I, er, well, er ...,’ he looked about in panic, ‘It was them, they put me off,’ he said pointing outside to the garden.

‘Who?’

‘Those children, they seem to be eating your roof.’

‘Oh them, I blame the parents. You know the little sods roasted my sister, hence the microwave. Anyway, enough of that. Look, your style is so unappetizing, I don't even feel like eat ..., um, buying from you.’

‘You just didn't give me a chance. No one gives me a chance. Other people have success handed to them on a plate. I struggle and struggle and get nowhere.’

‘Would you like to learn the secret of success?’ she croaked.

‘Of course I want success, but there is nothing I need to learn. I know all there is to know about success, it just eludes me. I tell you, if I had success, I would know what to do with it. I would surprise a few people, I can tell you. I was thinking on the way, if only I had a magic wand I could ...’

‘Funny you should say that,’ said the old woman producing a sort of metallic, ironish, glowing, wooden stick sort of thing. She waved it and cried, ‘Abracadabra!’

‘Abracadabra?’ said an incredulous Derek.

‘The oldies are always the goodies.’

She gave him a huge wink. There was a flash, a thunder crack, and Derek felt very strange indeed.

‘Hey, what the .. .?’ Derek cried out, but his voice was cracking into a throaty growl.

‘You need to change your thinking, m'lad. A bit of hard work and humility wouldn't go amiss. A few months, or even years, as a dog will teach you about how to succeed.’

‘A dog?’ yapped Derek who, by now, was feeling very hairy indeed, ‘Months? Years?’

‘Come off it, lad, I am supposed to be a wicked witch - what did you expect? Glass slippers and a pumpkin coach? But don't despair, the curse can be lifted.’

‘Who have I got to kiss?’ panted Derek, who suddenly was horrified to discover that he not only had the desire to nibble his own bottom, but the ability to do so as well.

‘Kiss be buggered! You whinged on about success so, when you have the ability to find it and you truly succeed at something then the curse will be lifted.’

The transformation was complete and Derek literally walked out of his suit. He looked towards the front door which seemed to be about thirty feet tall, contemplating his position. He felt a complete prat. He should have noticed the clues: the broomstick, the pointy hat, the ‘eye-of-newt’ novelty recipe tea towel, or, if nothing else, how the comedy doorknocker had a corresponding red backside with a twitching forked tail. His reverie was interrupted when the door opened of its own accord, and a brightly striped leg terminating in a laced Victorian boot, headed swiftly in his direction.

‘Gerrrout of it, you mangy brute,’ cried the witch. And Derek was launched into his new life by a swift kick up the arse.

The children in th...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Halftitle
• Titlepage
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Contents
• Acknowledgements
• The Way of the Dog - The Story about the Story
• The Way of the Dog - Instructions for Use
• The Way of the Dog
• The Way of the Dog In a Nutshell
• About the Author