Chance Encounters with Bob Flaherty: A dog with a purpose and some serious weight to be moved

SOUTH HADLEY — You’ll log some memorable sightings in the woods around here — a bear the size of a Volkswagen Beetle or baby foxes perfecting their pounce, etc. But the big, sleek, charcoal-faced creature hurdling over downed trees three at a time, then pivoting to streak back the other way is a serious sighting.

The erect ears and sheer size suggest German Shepherd, but Rin Tin Tin was never fighting-weight lean like this beast. Maybe you don’t get out like you used to, but until this moment, you had never seen nor heard of a Belgian Malinois. He is called Dutch — a 4-year-old with a vertical leap of nearly 8 feet.

“He’s my best friend,” said owner/trainer Josh Rondeau, 40, a former South Hadley firefighter, who caught sight of his first Malinois when he was in the Navy, stationed at Jacksonville, Florida. “There were security units on the base and they had German Shepherds, Czech Shepherds and these guys. Man, I gotta get one of these!”

Rondeau picked up Dutch in Connecticut, eight weeks old. “Immediately bonded,” he recalled. “There were a couple of males. I picked up his brother and he squirmed. I picked this guy up and he licked me right in the face. That’s the one! We’ve been together every day since.”

Belgians were bred in the 1890s, used to herd livestock at first. “They got really famous in World War I,” said Rondeau. “They’re not afraid of gunfire, so they’d run messages with ’em. They run around with the speed of a greyhound and the bite strength of a German Shepherd.”

Belgian Malinois are also highly intelligent, in many studies rated even smarter than the border collie.

They are not for everyone. Unless you’re willing to take on the role of pack leader, they’ll dominate a household. They master new commands in five to 15 reps. They quickly learn to evaluate what is a threat and what isn’t. Though Dutch was very affectionate during our encounter, if I’d approached in a hostile way, I’d be in a world of hurt, says Rondeau. Their house, that white one at the end of the street, would not be ideal for burgling, it goes without saying.

The dog, 70 pounds of presence, responds to roughly 50 commands, including crawling like a baby, growling on cue and walking backwards like John Wayne’s horse. “Dutch — back!”

He will hold a flashlight. He will stand on his hind legs. He will salute. 

Like most of his breed, Dutch requires a purpose. “He needs to get out and train every single day,” said Rondeau, “running, jumping, finding objects in our home. He’ll do the bite sleeve a couple times a week.”

“He’s more play-driven than food-driven. He’ll tackle me, steal my hat. If (the reward) is between a snack or play, he’ll always choose play. I have to regulate him in hot weather —he’ll run ’til he’s dead.”

Belgian Malinois have been known to clean up at Dog Olympics competitions, particularly in the dock-diving events. Rondeau was horsing around in some lake awhile back and Dutch leaped in to save him. “He thought I was drowning. I knew then that he’d lay down his life for me,” Rondeau said.

Do we dare to imagine Dutch in the Olympics?

“Nah, some people breed ‘em for work. I try to give him a fulfilling life without parameters,” said Rondeau.  

As for competition? Got that covered. Rondeau, it so happens, is a renowned powerlifter.

Welcome to the World-Beater Barbell Club      

Every Monday and Thursday night seven powerlifters meet at Rondeau’s house, say hi to his wife, Holly, and daughter, Neely, scratch Dutch’s ears, and make for the garage, which has long been transformed into a clanging world of iron.

Large metal plates are jammed onto bars in every corner of the place. Heavy metal pulses from the speakers, inspiration covers every wall and the merry band’s 44 New England records and 19 world records gouged into a wall like notches on a gun.

Kyle Hedblom, employing a mixed grip, psyches himself for a deadlift with 400-plus pounds on the bar. There are no cables here, no cords attached to perfectly calibrated lifting machines — this is iron, where you are on your own trying to balance crushing weight between your fists, fellow World-Beaters ready to jump in should you struggle, but loudly exhorting you on.

“It’s only as heavy as you think!” cries Rondeau, who taught strength and agility to some of these guys when they were high school athletes. He is still their coach, make no mistake, constantly hollering encouragement and correction while strapping on a harness, grunting through a deadlift and then roaming about.

“Work your ankles, work your calves! Don’t fall back!”

Unlike Rondeau, firefighter Noah Bristol, tall and lean, does not fit the image of a weightlifter, but the 480 he just manhandled off the floor makes his case. “I was always a skinny, athletic kid, but I wanted to be big and strong,” he says. He’s coming back from a broken leg he sustained while dirt biking. “Deadlifting is my bread and butter. Next year I’ll be on par for 500. Two years into recovery, but my numbers are higher than [they were] before I broke my leg.”

Facial expressions tell the tale here. Bristol’s eye-bulging face gives the impression that it’s lifting the weight itself. “Getting it past my knees is usually my weakness,” he says. “Once I get it past my knees it’s going!”  

“If you’re missing at the bottom, work the bottom!” comes a familiar voice.

Charlie Avery of Belchertown has been with the club seven years, going back to his soccer career. “Before I met Rondeau I was injured a lot,” he says, “hamstring problems, lower body injuries. A lot of college coaches said I was too skinny. I started lifting, put on 25 pounds, learned how to play through injuries.” He played soccer in Europe for four years, training with weights the whole time.

One might think that powerlifting itself would lead to injuries.

“Yeah, you’d think,” says Avery. “But when you put your body through that kind of tension, you can firm things up.”

Says Rondeau: “He benches 550 and weighs under 200 pounds. He has eight world records.”  

“He holds you accountable,” says Avery. “He can be abrasive, but he coached me to get my grades up. My dissertation was inspired from here.”

Missing tonight is WBBC co-founder Ryan Cauley, 38, who’s away on family business.

“Ryan and I started training together 16 years ago,” said Rondeau. “Our dream was owning our own place so we slowly started buying pieces.” They moved into the garage six years ago. “That rack, we drove to Pennsylvania to get that. That piece back there came from New Haven. If we can’t buy it we’ll make it. Noah welds, so that helps.”

Club’s overall philosophy: “Basically beat what you did on your last day,” said Oliver Mercier of South Hadley, commonly known as Hog. “I am Hog,” he grins, between bench presses. “You start to plateau, stuck on a weight, Rondeau has methods to get you out of that. It often comes down to form — your form has to be perfect.”

Pushing forward after injury is the mantra of the powerlifter. Rondeau, who suffers from Kienböck’s disease — a condition where the blood supply to one of the small bones in the wrist is interrupted — has a metal rod in his wrist from surgery last May. “I’m already back,” he said, pumped over his performance at a recent meet in Gardner, can’t wait for the one in Vermont in May.          

Facing mortality

Rondeau’s brother-in-law, Adam Jazek, 22, has had a lot more than injury to overcome. He was diagnosed with cancer as a teenager: his left leg gnarled with tumors, he was given only a 30% chance of survival and he was told he would never walk again. “Your brain can’t wrap your mind around it,” he says, “a kid facing mortality. But the worst thing was losing my hair. Seems like nothing, right? But I’m talking to girls, no hair, no eyebrows, nothing.”

His brother-in-law’s suggestion? “Time to get in the gym.”

“Such focus!” Jazek says about working with iron. “I feel that everything should have that kind of focus.” The leg, which had a great deal of muscle removed, does not lend itself to squatting or deadlifting but the dude can bench. “I’m stronger now, and wiser, which makes up for what I’ve lost.”

Now five years in remission, he says that the nurses who fought beside him throughout his long ordeal “gave me my purpose.”

He’s on track to have a nursing degree from Elms College next spring. “Pediatric oncology. I want to be with children who have cancer.”