Bones Would Rain from the Sky Page 24
Lumped under the general umbrella term of aggression is a very wide range of behaviors, from confident threats of bodily harm to fearful reactions meant to create an opening for escape and/or to scare off whatever is scaring the dog. But among the general dog-owning public, “aggression” usually consists of these basic elements: barking, growling, snarling, snapping, lunging toward a person or other animal, biting and any combination or variation of the above. Unfortunately for dogs, these same behaviors can also be used in nonaggressive behavior, though our poor grasp of canine language often leaves us unable to make the necessary distinctions.
Social animals ourselves, we know that disagreements, dislikes and even noisy but relative harmless fighting are part of life, though not necessarily enjoyable, productive or desirable. With sufficient experience and knowledge, we are able to place the behavior of other people in its proper context and perspective. A person who raises her voice in anger or slams a door in pure frustration during an argument is not assumed to be on a nonstop course to committing murder. And yet, a dog who growls at his owners may be considered just a step away from “turning on them.” A dog who engages in a noisy squabble with other dogs is often described as “trying to kill them.” Somehow, we’ve gotten it into our minds that there is an inexorable progression from a low growl to full-blown canine murder.
Because we may fearfully assume that a growl inevitably progresses to a bite, and bites may progress to a fatal attack (an especially common fear when the aggressive behavior is directed at another dog), we are quick to react to anything we perceive as aggression. Unable to distinguish a grumble of annoyance from a serious threat, we simply attempt to quash all behaviors we find upsetting, regardless of the cause, regardless of the value these communications have for us and for other animals. In doing this, we not only block ourselves from understanding and from improving our relationships with our dogs, but we also set unreasonable expectations for our dogs’ behavior. I’ve known people who truly expected that their dogs never growl, that their dogs never have arguments, that their dogs like and happily get along with every other dog and person they meet—in other words, somehow get through life in ways a saint would be hard-pressed to match. Who among us could even begin to meet such expectations? I’d fail within an hour flat some days.
Under the broad category of aggression are many behaviors. The key word here is behavior, which is communication. Whether a dog is wagging his tail or biting your arm, he’s communicating. We’re just not always thrilled to be on the receiving end of the less-pleasant communications dogs might send our way. Appreciating growls, snaps or even bites as meaningful communication requires a willingness to recognize and deal with the fear that quite naturally arises within us. Our fear in the face of a dog’s aggressive behavior may be disguised as anger—“How dare you!” or “You’re not going to get away with that!” Left unrecognized and unresolved, our fear can provoke us to react to the dog’s behavior in ways that may not be best for the dog, ourselves and the relationship. If we interpret a dog’s aggressive communication as a challenge to our authority and we don’t understand that our own fear is what drives that response, we may feel quite justified in responding with what amounts to aggression of our own. If you’re interested in proving to your dog that you’re bigger and tougher than he is, an aggressive response of your own may be the way to go. If you’re interested in a trusting relationship, you need to understand aggression in any form for what it is: a meaningful and very important communication.
READ MY LIPS
Recently, a trainer was demonstrating for me just how “aggressive” a small dog was. While the dog was looking away, she stepped up and, hovering over him like his personal weather front, tapped him lightly on the butt. With great slow deliberation, the dog turned his head to look up at her, his head still, eyes hard and fixed on her face. She tapped again, and the dog laid one ear back, slitted his eyes a bit and slightly wrinkled the lip nearest the trainer. She tapped again, and this time the dog growled softly and more dramatically lifted his lip so that the bottom tip of his teeth could be seen. “See what I mean?” she asked. When I asked her why she had ignored the first two warnings that the dog had kindly given her before actually escalating to a growl and a show of teeth, she looked at me blankly. She had quite literally seen nothing from the dog in the way of warning until his teeth were visible; through her own lack of awareness, she forced the dog to make his meaning very clear.
To the best of their ability, normal dogs actually try to minimize aggression in their lives, using eloquent, subtle communications that escalate only as necessary to make their point. Just like humans, dogs communicate their feelings in a progressive way, starting with subtle signs of fear, anger, pain or irritation and slowly escalating the communication to the point where it is heeded or a confrontation is inevitable.
Beyond these obvious gestures, there is an entire world of more subtle gestures that dogs use to indicate their state of mind. In a normal, healthy dog, the first sign that something’s gone awry is not a full-blown attack. Instead the dog uses other ways to communicate—body posture, speed and direction of head and eye movements, the position of ears and tail and even the whiskers. Tiny alterations in breathing, the expression of the eyes, or even the angle of the dog’s head can communicate volumes to another dog or to a human who is paying attention and understands what it is being said.
“Ah, how mysterious this all is,” we may think, and despair of ever being able to understand what our dogs are telling us. But if we do that, we are forgetting that we’ve learned to read precisely such subtleties in the people around us: A mere glance from an annoyed mother is sometimes sufficient to silence a child; a look held just a fraction too long may signal a flirtation; a mere tightening of the lips or jaw warns us of irritation in another. Learning to read a dog’s warning signals requires practice and an awareness of the early, less-obvious signs that a dog is moving out of a relaxed and balanced state of being.
Normal, healthy dogs follow proper canine protocol of progressive communications, which may also be looked at as warnings. Since dogs act aggressively only in response to a perceived conflict, the aggressive behaviors we observe are warnings that the dog is feeling pressured in some way. Oblivious to multiple and (from the dog’s point of view) fair warnings, we may blunder along until at last the dog finds the level of communication that gets our attention. Though meant to warn us, these subtle gestures are not always effective signals due to the rather poor reception on our mental TV sets. Since we’ve not seen or have disregarded the many warnings that preceded the growl or the snap or the bite, we’re shocked; questioned, we report, “All of sudden, he just went nuts.” If the dog could be interviewed, his version would be quite different: “I warned her and I warned her and then I warned her some more. Finally, I did what I had to do to get through to her.”
Let’s look at a human parallel for a moment. You’re standing in line at the movie theater, aware of the people around you but happily anticipating the showing of the classic Old Yeller. The line moves forward a few feet, and as it comes to a halt once again, you realize that the person standing behind you is standing too close for your comfort. You step slightly away from him, using the crowded space as best you can. To your annoyance, you realize that the person is still close behind you. Throwing an irritated glance over your shoulder, you huff quietly but audibly. (Both behaviors are subtle but meaningful and unmistakable expressions of irritation.) Suddenly, there’s hot breath on your neck—the fool is actually leaning forward to make contact with you. With slitted eyes and an icy demeanor, you turn and say with a slow, deliberate growl, “Leave me alone.” (Again, your combined body posture and vocalizations clearly delineate your growing annoyance.) For a second, you think about stepping out of line and moving away, but this thought irritates you further—you’ve been waiting in line for half an hour, you want to see the movie and you are not about to give it up because of some idiot with no manners. When tw
o hands slide around your waist and pull you into a tight embrace, you’re indignant and alarmed. Pulling away, you raise your voice: “Leave me alone!” (Your struggle and protest are very clear communications.) To your shock, the person pays no attention to your outburst or your struggles but holds you even tighter. Furious, you twist around and slap him hard. Surprised, he lets go of you and staring at you in wounded amazement asks, “What did you do that for?”
A greater intensity of connection is possible when we understand the other’s warning signals. If we can’t understand when we are being warned, then we cannot make choices about our own behavior, or work to shift the underlying problems that necessitated a warning. A friend’s slowly tightening jaw tells us that we may be treading on delicate ground, but if we do not notice or understand it as a warning signal, we may blunder along until at last she’s truly upset and screaming at us. In a healthy relationship, such warnings do not mean that we veer off never to return to the subject or situation that prompted such a warning; avoiding problems never serves to deepen intimacy and trust. A gentle, loving and compassionate approach to sensitive or troublesome issues can turn a potential conflict into an opportunity for growth, increased trust and a deeper relationship. A friend’s tight jaw points to a problem that needs to be addressed; heeding her warning signal allows us to carefully, lovingly and respectfully find a way back to the issue in another way or at another time so that we can further explore what may be wrong.
Complicating matters for both dogs and humans is this little twist: Dogs vary considerably in their warning signals. More precisely, dogs, regardless of breed, use the same basic signals in their communications. A dog from Outer Mongolia could speak to and understand a dog from Brooklyn without too much difficulty. (Dogs never will need the UN, which is probably a good thing for all involved. The Dachshunds might not support a peacekeeping action in a Boxer rebellion.) The speed of the warning signals and the progression from mild irritation to more serious phrases can vary greatly, just as some humans have a very long fuse and some are grenades with the pin pulled. Some dogs are as slow and delib erate in their communication style as a senator bent on a filibuster; other dogs are more volatile, shifting from vaguely annoyed to really ticked off in just a few seconds. I’ve known dogs who sent long, involved telegrams of warning, even lengthy volumes, as if Tolstoy had come back as a dog and was working out War and Peace in a new language. I’ve also known dogs whose warning signals might be aptly characterized as canine haiku, dense with meaning and very brief.
For a lovely time, I shared my life with the usual complement of German Shepherds as well as a Labrador mix, a Shetland Sheepdog and a Scottish Deerhound. Consequently, the puppies born in those years learned all kinds of accents even before leaving home. This was not an entirely painless process. Apparently, Deerhounds speak with a particularly spare voice true to their Scottish heritage, wasting no words as it were. German Shepherds, on the other hand, like to spin long, drawn-out Gothic tales full of dire warnings meant to impress puppies (or maybe just bore them) with the importance of respecting your elders. A dramatic people, Shepherds employ a considerable range of vocalizations and facial expressions, ranging from “the Look” to a full, snarling, teeth-bared warning that if ignored, results in nothing more than snapping in the puppy’s direction. The puppies—roughly six weeks old—were merrily toddling around the house, learning good manners (i.e., annoying everyone) and being tolerated with good grace. Fred, the Deerhound, had wisely retreated to a couch to lie watching the merriment from a puppy-free zone. One bright little chap decided that if being up there was good enough for Uncle Fred, by golly it was good enough for him. Getting his front paws on the cushion’s edge, he began his struggle to climb up and join his big pal. Seeing this, Fred drew himself up so that he was sitting and leaning against the back cushions, all feet well out of the puppy’s reach. But persistence pays, and the puppy, delighted with his success, wriggled over to share his joy.
Accustomed to his German relatives’ long-winded speeches, the puppy did not notice the first sign of Fred’s irritation: a quiet glare directed down his long, mustached nose at the beast frolicking at his feet. He also missed the next warning sign: one eyebrow (the one nearest the puppy) was raised. Unfortunately, he didn’t notice the final warning: both eyebrows raised and “the Look.” Since this appeared to be a rather dim-witted pup, Fred made his annoyance crystal clear by leaning down and roaring at the pup though touching him with nothing more than hot breath. Tumbling off the couch, the puppy began screaming as if invisible hands were pulling his intestines out through his nostrils one inch at a time. The other dogs didn’t even bat an eye, and the puppy’s mother simply glanced up as if to check that he was not being carried off by an eagle or something that required her intervention. Since puppies learn by doing, each of that litter had to learn firsthand just how quietly Uncle Fred muttered, “Go away, you little pest.” Eventually, all puppies left for their new homes, wiser and fluent in both in their native tongue, Sturm and Drang, and the elegant but rather spare Hound.
I do not think dogs understand that we are often completely unaware of the more subtle signs. After all, they are using what they know to be very clear language, their native tongue, and the only one they know. The dogs are operating under the assumption that we do see and understand these signals, just as we speak with the assumption that we are heard (an assumption that can be proven false if we are dealing with someone who is deaf or who speaks another language or is simply not even in the room). In my experience, dogs (like us) may interpret our lack of appropriate response as their communications being heard but disregarded. This is a critical distinction. If we believe someone has not heard us or perhaps doesn’t understand what we have meant, our reaction is quite different than if we believe they are deliberately disregarding us. Things can get very ugly quickly when we feel disregarded or deliberately ignored instead of simply not heard or misunderstood. Dogs are no different in this respect. Like us, a dog’s response varies according to his own personality and experience, the situation and the other person involved. Some dogs patiently try to make their message very, very clear without resorting to even vaguely aggressive behavior; some dogs quickly march up the irritation scale and escalate the communication to one that is heeded. Flashing pearly whites tend to get most folks’ attention, and not just because they’re a pretty color.
I can only imagine how maddening we humans must be for dogs, masters of nuance and gesture in their communications. I suspect that dogs must view us as rather dim though nice, and I do know that they sometimes take great care to exaggerate their signals to us, just as we talk in slow, exaggerated ways to children or the confused. Regretfully, dogs sometimes learn that their subtle warnings go unheeded but that snarls and snaps get our attention.
AGGRESSION CAN HURT
One of the greatest gifts I ever received from another trainer was the experience of taking a bite from a well-trained dog. “You do not need to fear dogs, but you must always respect how powerful they are,” he told me. “You should feel this power for yourself, because you’ll never forget it.” Setting me in the appropriate position, my left arm protected by a steel-lined, heavily padded sleeve, he brought in one of his Schutzhund dogs. (Schutzhund is a sport that tests the dog’s ability to work in three areas: tracking, obedience and protection [or “bitework” as it is casually known]. Correctly done, this sport offers a challenge to test the dog’s intelligence, trainability and character.) When the dog saw the sleeve, his eyes grew intense and he began barking in keen anticipation of this game he knew so well and loved. Instructing me to keep the protected left arm foremost toward the dog, the trainer released the dog with a quiet command.
As it does in such moments, time became a wondrous taffy of slow motion, stretching the minutes so that I could see everything clearly. I remember being awed at how effortlessly the dog covered the distance between us in two bounds, his dark eyes intent on the sleeve as if nothing else in the
world existed. If I had somehow been beamed aboard a spaceship leaving only the sleeve hanging in midair, I doubt the dog would have noticed. Although I trusted this trainer and knew this was a friendly, stable dog with excellent training, I could not stop the fear that rose in my throat as the dog launched, jaws open and airborne, directly at me.
The pure force of the dog sinking his teeth into the padded sleeve rocked me back and spun me slightly sideways, and then we were locked in a dance eerily symbolic of predator and prey. Unshakable as death, though with a joyful light in his eyes that I pray the Grim Reaper does not possess, the dog hung by his jaws, his hind feet barely touching the ground. Had I been taller than I am, the dog would have been suspended in midair—and that would have made no difference whatsoever to him.
“See if you can get him off your arm,” the trainer suggested with the hint of a smile. More than a few times in a life shared with animals, I’ve been handed vivid reminders that humans are, for all intents and purposes, fairly puny physical beings and that only the workings of a few ounces of gray matter allow us to survive in this world. This was one of those times. I tried my best to shake that dog off that sleeve or even disturb his grip. Years of working in stables had left me quite strong for my size, but not so much as a tooth shifted even though I nearly wrenched my arm out of its socket trying.
As the shock of the impact passed, and the sharp fear that had risen in me subsided, I could see that for the dog, this was a game, a fierce one that was a bit frightening for a new two-legged player, but a game nonetheless. His expression, I noted with interest, was not any different from my own dog’s expression when struggling to pull a large branch from the creek or pitting his strength against mine in a game of tug-of-war. There was nothing angry or deadly in this dog’s eyes but rather a blissful excitement, a look I have seen in many dogs’ eyes when they moved with passion to answer a challenge of their skill. And through it all, I could feel the steel lining of the sleeve being compressed against my flesh like massive surrogate jaws at work on the dog’s behalf.