Bones Would Rain from the Sky Page 13
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 incor rectly. 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—the 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.
9
AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH
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 s
he 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 encountered 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, dis liked, 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-as-you-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 clients discovered this when dealing with her dog’s eating problems. Bella was not a good eater, though her owner, Beth, had tried over the years to provide her dog with the very finest foods available. As she learned more, Beth began to embrace the good sense behind learning to prepare her own homemade dog food; with full control over the individual ingredients and their quality, she could be sure of providing her beloved companion with the best possible diet. Using one of the many balanced recipes available, Beth had painstakingly assembled the ingredients and prepared the food. But Bella didn’t like this new food either. As she had with all other foods, the dog ate only enough to keep herself alive, though she gladly accepted certain special treats. Watching Bella wolf down a chicken sandwich that fell on the floor, Beth was frustrated. Was this dog just playing games with her? Thinking of the hours she had spent preparing the best possible food, she felt angry and rejected.
Ever try to feed an eighteen-month-old toddler a food he didn’t like? There’s no particular consideration on the child’s part for the cost of the food, how good it may be for him according to the nutritional experts, how much effort was required to obtain and/or prepare this magical elixir. If he doesn’t like it, he will screw up his face in the universal sign of disgust and refuse to allow you to con him (airplanes, trains and all) to swallow any more of that yucky stuff. Your dog will be equally and brutally honest. Spend all day preparing choice tidbits, and your dog may sniff and turn away. No apology, though some very kind dogs will humor you a tad by taking the treat, wagging their tail and then immediately spitting the food out or placing it gently on the floor.
At first glance, I had noticed the dog’s appearance—Bella was hardly the picture of good health. Her coat was dull and dry, and her ribs were easily visible even from a distance. Clearly, this was a dog with serious problems that Beth hoped I might help unravel. I asked what she was feeding Bella, and was quite surprised to discover she was using a long-established and very reputable recipe, one that I’d used with my own dogs with excellent results. Seeing my surprise, Beth nodded in rueful agreement. “I know! I thought I was doing something good for her, but look at her. People have stopped me on the street and scolded me for not feeding my dog! They should know how hard I try to do what’s best for Bella.”
I asked about the ingredients—raw beef, brown rice, and a variety of vegetables—and Bella’s response to her food. “She just picks out a li
ttle beef and the carrots and green beans, but that’s about it.” Beth sighed. But before I could ask another question, she went on, her voice filled with frustration and a touch of bitterness. “Of course, Little Miss Picky here is always right underfoot when I roast a chicken. And in the mornings, she’ll walk away from her food bowl to sit begging for some of my oatmeal.”
Now it all made sense. “She likes oatmeal?”
Beth nodded, adding, “I have some every morning, and Bella knows it. She sits there begging and going through all the tricks she knows just to get some. I know it’s spoiling her, but I give her some every now and then—at least it’s something in her tummy.”
“Did you ever think of using other ingredients? Like chicken instead of beef, oatmeal instead of brown rice?” Beth shook her head, reminding me that the recipe called for beef, not chicken. I assured her that substitutions were fine, and sometimes very necessary. Not all foods suit all dogs, just as people vary in the diet that best suits them. I went on to explain that in my experience, healthy dogs whose food agrees with them are good eaters, enthusiastic and quick in their approach to doing what canines do—gulping down their meals without much chewing involved. (I’ve had some clients very concerned about this normal dog behavior and have had to reassure them that the design of a dog’s teeth offer good clues about how a dog should eat. The impressive array of canine dental ware is designed for grabbing and tearing, not carefully chewing. The dog’s powerful digestive system does the brunt of the work, unlike our weaker stomachs that prefer our food at least partially chewed.)