Bones Would Rain from the Sky: Deepening Our Relationships with Dogs Read online

  Trying to step into another's point of view, however, is sometimes more easily said than done. As a Cuban proverb sagely observes, "Listening looks easy, but it's not simple. Every head is a world." No matter how empathetic we may be, a lot of bobbles and mistakes can be made as we fumble around, trying to understand, trying to guess, trying

  to walk a few miles in the other's paws. this little piggy When we acquired our first Gloucestershire Old Spots pig, a rare breed considered endangered in the United States, we decided that this pig needed to learn some basic life skills so that he could enjoy to the fullest possible degree the freedoms and delights life on our farm might be able to offer. After spending two weeks getting to know the little boar whom we named Connor (a grand Irish name for an intensely English breed; we are nothing if not perverse), we were satisfied that the lack of handling in his first few months of life had been largely overcome. The Old Spots legendary gentle temperament was shining through, and it was time to begin working with Connor in earnest. Time is always of the essence when dealing with species whose lives are, as Irving Townsend put it, "even more temporary than our own." What it takes a human being fourteen years to accomplish between birth and the deranging onset of hormones, a dog accomplishes in less than one light-speed year. Miss a few stops along the way on that track and you've missed a lot; it's quite safe to say that the first six months of a dog's life can make or break the dog that puppy will eventually become. Canine developmental timetables make humans appear to be moving on a very slow, leisurely schedule. Pigs are also on the fast track developmentally, but they bring another dimension altogether to the challenges created by rapid development-the dimension of weight. It is not impossible for a young growing pig to add as much as two pounds a day, and that translates on an explosive and exponential scale to sheer power. With each passing day, Connor was more mature-you may read that as more fixed in his ways; it can be difficult to keep a pig's mind flexible and accommodating. He also weighed more. A lot more. Now was the time if I was going to train my new pal so that he could enjoy walks in the fields and woods, and so that he'd be safe to handle, a desirable goal in an animal that may weigh close to a thousand pounds at maturity! In the end, Connor's leash training began with several short sessions a day of having a soft cotton horse lead draped in a figure eight around his neck and behind his front legs. Once accustomed to that, I tried to steer him out of his pen and into the barn aisle, where we could stroll and practice this new

  life skill. Curious about the world outside his pen, Connor took a few steps forward, snout upward sniffing then furiously skimming along the concrete of the barn floor. He was having fun exploring and didn't seem to mind the leash and harness at all. This is easier than I thought, I told myself smugly as I followed the porcine explorer. You would think by now I'd be a wise enough trainer to know that when anything-anything at all-is done with even a hint of smugness in the presence of an animal, the Dog God begins to chuckle just before all hell breaks loose. I tugged every so gently on Connor's rope harness, thinking to encourage him to take another few steps, and then the squealing began. It was as if suddenly he realized that he was restrained in any way. Apparently, being steered or restrained is something pigs as a rule see as unreasonable; these guys are the Patrick Henrys of the farm animal set: "Give me liberty or give me . . . No, wait-give me liberty or else!" It is said that a squealing pig can generate sounds that exceed the decibel level of the Concorde Jet at takeoff. Whoever was man enough to discover this fact has my sympathy for what he faced every day on the job. I'm sure he also has a hearing aid by now. (seriously, in a report of injuries sustained on the job, swine veterinarians reported hearing loss as one of the long-term effects of spending their days in the company of pigs.) Ever alert to the fine nuances of animal behavior, I could not help but notice the escalation of squeals from rather cute porcine mumbles of annoyance to full-blooded stop-everycowonthefarminthe-tracks screams. I think that if I were a predator, such squeals would either scare the hunt right out of me or spur me on to new heights of savagery. Of course, if I were a piglet about Connor's size and some evil wolf crept up and put a rope harness on me and tried to get me to stroll up and down the barn aisle, my screams would have another purpose: the piglet's version of 911. Response is not by police or ambulance, but by Momma Hog, a fast-moving mountain of protection on little trotters. My estimates are that in fair weather under reasonable conditions, Connor's screams could easily have been heard at least a quarter mile away. Thankfully, Connor's sizeable mother was nearly a hundred miles away.

  It's an old barn, and sound likes to stick around and ricochet from the concrete floor to the stone wall on one side to the soft, rotting wood of the haymow floor; I don't think too many decibels escaped. (one of the roosters may now be deaf, though we can't really tell. He didn't respond to his name in the first place.) A believer in the value of an empathetic approach to animals, I tried to understand how this seemed from Connor's point of view. (trust me-empathetic thinking is not easily done under these conditions; my eardrums were vibrating in time with Mother Nature's spokes-pig, a vibration that does not loan itself to thoughtful meditation.) I could understand that being restrained from moving freely might be frustrating. So, abandoning even gentle tugs, treating him like a puppy being leash trained, I simply followed him, letting him set the direction. Up and down the barn aisle we walked, Connor squealing no matter what I did. Even when he was free to set the course, he was quite verbal about the whole experience, mollified only slightly by the occasional jellybean I offered when he stood mumbling to himself. I tried everything I had learned over years of leash training puppies and even full-grown dogs, halter training cattle and horses. And still the pig squealed, though it varied from full-blown "You'll never take me alive!" squeals to more moderate "Damn you all" mutters. Why, I wondered, was this so difficult for him? It dawned on me that what was missing was the exact ingredient I'd reminded countless students of in training their dogs: relevance. From Connor's point of view, this was not relevant to his life. There was simply no point in this senseless walking up and down the barn aisle. He'd already been there more than twice, and jellybeans weren't very convincing reasons to continue. (our other pig, Charlotte, has a more typically porcine view of food as possibly worth selling her soul for, and will work on silly tasks like sitting or waving just to get a gumdrop.) It's very easy to forget that while we think something is fascinating or important, our animals may not. If we can appreciate that some of their complaints may be about how boring or pointless something is, we'll go further in being able to understand what they have to tell us. Of course, accepting someone's comment that your plan is boring or pointless requires

  that you've left your ego at home that day and does oblige you to figure out how to liven up the lesson. "The point, my dear pig, is that in learning to walk on leash and harness you will gain the freedom to go outside for walks with us in areas not safely fenced for you." My speech, naturally, fell on deaf ears (his squeals may have affected his hearing as well, and if not, I encourage some scientist somewhere to find out why not). Verbal communications are rather limited when addressing animals-they're more of a Missouri mind-set: "Show me." So, I showed Connor why this was important. I took him outside the barn, a short trip made possible with a lot of jellybeans and careful use of blockades to encourage progress toward the barn door. Once outside, his squeals diminished as he began eagerly snuffling his way across the farmyard. By the time we reached the lush green grass of the lawn, he understood what the point was and settled down to eat his way toward the house. By his second leash-and-harness lesson, he complained only briefly when he first left his pen and until he reached the outdoors. By the third lesson, he stood politely while his harness was put on, and like an absolute gentleman, walked out into the sunshine with nary a squeal. Since then, just like dogs who leap for joy at the sight of their leashes, Connor has welcomed both the harness and the freedom it allows him (or did until he grew so large that harnessing him
was akin to harnessing a Volkswagen with no brakes and a determined mind). We had only one other incident with squealing complaints, and it took me a while to understand what he was telling me. We had set off for a long walk in the woods and fields, accompanied by two guests and a few dogs. Connor was a delightful walking companion who set a leisurely pace and whose motto might be summed up as "be sure to stop and eat the flowers." Halfway through the planned route, one of the guests indicated he was tired and in danger of being carried away by hungry mosquitoes, so I headed for home, retracing our steps. The instant I changed my plans, Connor began to squeal. This puzzled me since he hadn't uttered a peep the entire trip. The farther we walked, the more he squealed, and these were the squeals of complaint, not fear or pain or worry. Eventually, the answer came clear in the shift in his body posture and explorations. He was just trudging along without exploring, and I realized that he looked and sounded for

  all the world like a portly child who was disgruntled by a fun expedition cut short. To test my theory, I veered off the path into an area he had not yet explored. Immediately his head went down and he was quiet again, happy that we were headed somewhere new. Sadly, the already traveled (and explored) trail was the only comfortable route home. When I resumed walking along behind the guests, Connor once again began telling us just how little he thought of it all. He was the piggy I heard tell of as a child-the one who cried wee-wee-wee all the way home. Is this So? It is okay to guess what an animal is feeling, just as it's okay to guess what any human is thinking. This is how we learn to know one another, by guesses based on our own experiences, our (always imperfect) understanding of how someone else communicates what they are feeling or thinking, and our willingness to accept feedback and fine-tune our behavior. It's okay to guess what your dog is trying to communicate as long as you're willing to accept that you might be wrong, correct your misunderstanding and try again. It is not okay to guess what an animal is thinking or feeling if you are unwilling to accept nothing less than absolute compliance with your wishes. Far too common are assertions that someone "knows" why a dog did or did not do something; rarely is that guess tested against the reality of the dog's responses. I make a lot of guesses based on my observations of a dog's behavior, the situation and many years of experience. But I'm also interested in testing my guesses against reality. In one way or another, I create a situation that asks the dog, "Is this so? Is that how it is for you? Did I guess right?" I'm as grateful when I'm wrong as when I'm right. Results I did not expect are evidence that I've guessed wrong and need to try again; they are also opportunities for me to learn more than I knew when I guessed incorrectly. This is how all of us learn anything, and it is how all of us learn to understand others. A relationship is a learning process, and one that never ends; we never "master" a relationship as we might a skill, like learning to ride a bicycle. But there are similarities that are useful to remember. When you were learning to ride a bicycle, you engaged in what is known as a feedback loop.

  As you tried to master the seemingly simple act of balancing on two wheels in motion, you had to constantly adjust according to the information your body was getting. At first, the feedback loop was sloppy. This, of course, was due only to your inexperience and misunderstanding comthe bicycle, responsive only to the laws of gravity, had no ulterior motives or desire to unseat you. Aware of losing your balance, you compensated too soon or too much or too late. But as you persisted, the feedback loop became tighter, quicker, and you learned to adjust only to actual information received through your feeling of balance and what you saw visually. Eventually, the feedback loop was fast but unimpeded by your fear or anxious, premature adjustments, and you rode the bicycle down the street. Relationships are the ultimate in feedback loops. The speed, accuracy and detail of a feedback loop offers a good clue to the intensity of relationship. For example, if you are having a bad day, you may seem to casual acquaintances or strangers to be perfectly fine-the feedback loop between you and them is a relatively crude one, so that subtleties of expression or movement are often lost. But to someone who loves you, it may be unmistakably clear in the shape of your mouth or the cast of your eyes that you are having a bad day. They have "learned" you, and they did so because they were curious, because they were willing to guess and pay attention to the feedback loop of your responses and your behavior, adjust their own actions accordingly and try again. When we join the dog in a healthy, trusting relationship, bringing intense curiosity, empathy and a humble willingness to learn, a feedback loop of very high order can be created. Fine distinctions and subtleties become possible, and even minute gestures can take on great meaning. We are well on the road to understanding each other. All of us-man and beast-move through life trying to be heard, trying to listen. Should I ever lose the power to speak and to write, my two major forms of communication, I sincerely hope that someone loves me enough to guess what I'm trying to say. I sincerely hope someone is intensely curious about what's going on inside me and takes the time to listen to the whole message. I hope someone treats me like a dog they love very much.

  Honesty is the first chapter in the book of wisdom. thomas Jefferson

  THE OLD SAW NOTES THAT NOTHING IN LIFE IS CERTAIN except death and taxes. I suspect the author of that little cynicism didn't have a dog, or he'd have known that there is another certainty: A dog will always tell you the truth. (actually, this is true of a majority of animals, with the exceptions of human beings and our closest kin, the great apes. Nice to know that so much shared DNA also allows for outright deception if not matching opposable thumbs.) Mind you, this is not the Truth mankind has sought since the beginning of time, though I'll grant dogs have their fair-share number of that puzzle's pieces. A dog will tell you his truth, which springs directly from his understanding and experience of his world. Dogs are ruthlessly, unfailingly, reliably honest. What you see is what you get. There are no ulterior motives, or at least hidden ones- our dogs think nothing of giving us wonderful affectionate hugs while also leaning over our shoulders to lick a plate! This does not mean the dog will tell you what you want to hear. By honesty, I mean that the dog will report faithfully to you in his body language and behavior what he is feeling at the moment. If a dog is angry, he'll be quite clear about that. If he's happy, he shows it. Assuming we can accurately learn to understand what he's saying, we can rely on the dog to tell us what's going on for him at that moment. Concealed feelings are not part of a dog's world. If you could ask a dog "How are you?" and receive an answer of "Feeling great, thanks!" that is an answer you could bet the farm on without placing anything in jeop- ardy. Ask a human the same question, and while you may get the same jolly answer, that person may be concealing their anxiety over being fired five minutes earlier or hiding their anger at something you did fifteen years ago. What makes human communications especially tricky is that people have the ability to externally display behavior congruent with one emotional or mental state while internally experiencing something else altogether. This is commonly known as lying. (and when people are very good at concealing such incongruence, sometimes we call them politicians.)

  To the best of my knowledge, there are no mechanisms in the canine behavioral repertoire that allow for deceit. The closest thing to deceit I have ever witnessed was a dog who somehow learned that if she barked convincingly at the front door, other dogs would rush to join her, giving up the spot on the couch that she coveted. She did not use this behavior frequently-maybe four times in my experience. (which begs the question-if this was a deliberate and successful deception, why didn't she use it more often or anytime that she wanted access to her spot on the couch?) Our conclusion was that she was barking at nothing, and had done so only to get the others off the couch. But this conclusion may speak more to our state of mind than to an accurate reflection of dog behavior. Knowing just how keen a dog's senses are and how many times I've incorrectly discounted a dog's communication only because I saw nothing outside, I'm not sure that there was "nothing" there. Since I've enco
untered no other form of deceit in dogs (or many other species), I'm hard-pressed to count that single example of possible deceit as meaningful, though I've heard of other dogs learning the same or similar behavior. If that's the extent of doggy dishonesty, I'll take it. not a matter of choice Given our tendency to romanticize the noble beast and place animals as superior to (instead of different from) humans in certain aspects, I think it is important to recognize that the dog's honesty springs from an inability to lie. The dog's honesty does not arise out of any moral superiority but rather from the fact that he is incapable of dishonesty. Lying is simply not a part of canine communications. I have seen dogs offer behaviors that they thought were expected or wanted, but they did not offer them with an intent to deceive. Those who would place the dog or any other animal on a pedestal for being honest are missing the point-human honesty is noble precisely because it reflects a deliberate choice between lying and telling the truth. Dogs lack the option, thus do not consciously choose to be honest. Just as mercy is the possession of power not brought to bear, honesty is the possession of a capacity for deceit that is not used. While we should be more than a little grateful for animal honesty, no merit should be assigned for not

  doing what you are incapable of doing anyhow; it's kind of like congratulating a blind man for not ogling a naked woman. On the other hand, the value of this honesty should not be discounted. Whether the result of conscious choice or simple inability, honesty is an extraordinary gift in any relationship. And yet, we frequently discount the dog's utter truthfulness about what he thinks in any given situation. It may be that we do this for two reasons. First, unfailing honesty is almost inconceivable based on our human experiences. Second, complete honesty is not always entirely pleasant; truth encompasses both welcome and unwelcome messages. In even our most trusting relationships with people, we remain aware that at some level, the potential for deception is ever present. The human mind is unfortunately quite capable of deceit on scales both grand and petty. And no matter who we are or how wonderful we try to become, each of us is uneasily aware that we possess the capacity for lying; our awareness arises from experience with our own minds and our own behavior. The struggle to become honest is one all humans face, because our needs and fears inevitably bring us into conflict with the needs and fears of others. Lies, small or big, are one way of navigating through unfamiliar waters, though if we are wise, we learn that we have traded on trust for only momentary relief and have quite possibly entangled ourselves further in very dangerous tides. Though we may give lip service to understanding that animals are honest beings, it is not easy to incorporate that knowledge into our relationships with them. For a moment, really try to imagine living your life where all that you hoped for, feared, worried about, lusted after, disliked, hated, loved, adored, longed for or coveted was clearly written on your face and in your body language. Imagine being a dog, if you can, and living a life where you were incapable of telling a lie. What if as a dog, you find yourself among well-meaning but ignorant folks? Since their own behavior includes lies and deliberate deceptions, they would assume that you are also capable of lies. All you said and did would be interpreted through a filter of assumption that though you appeared honest, there was quite possibly deception and ulterior motive behind your actions. These might be maddening people to deal with-unable to be completely honest themselves, they also could not believe that you were capable of such. Unless we learn to be aware of our own responses, and to see the dog not as a person but purely as a dog offering his animal honesty, the fullness of the gift of honesty will elude us. Dogs do not have even the most rudimentary form of deceit-the "white lie," a form of dishonesty that many people consider harmless since theoretically the intent of the white lie is to protect another's feelings. Human culture teaches us that to be polite is to suppress our immediate responses, to not blurt out what's really on our mind. Though the real intent of tactfulness is to shape our communications with respect to the listener's feelings, more often our politeness only means that we have been trained to a fine degree of social dishonesty. If a woman asks, "Do I look fat in this dress?" it is only a fool or a brave friend who confesses that perhaps another style might better show off her considerable assets. (a dog, of course, would wonder why a dress was even necessary; buck-ass naked is just as acceptable to a dog as any designer gown. For dogs, life is a come-z-y-are party.) At best, social dishonesty keeps the waters relatively untroubled and characterizes many relationships in their early stages, at least till we've had a chance to see how our boat floats and how best to navigate on those waters. But within a meaningful relationship, intimacy is closely linked to the degree of honesty within ourselves and the other. In our relationships with dogs and other animals, the barrier to complete honesty lies only in us. Absolute honesty is not easy to take, especially when it arrives in the form dogs offer it to us: blunt and not tactfully shaped to slide unwelcome information past our emotional defenses. At times, we might appreciate just a touch of social dishonesty from our dogs. One of my and nothing but the truth