Bones Would Rain from the Sky Page 29
What happens if we mistake a nonessential for an essential? One would hope that there’s nothing more at stake than some wasted time, and a dog’s mind that now contains a bit of interesting but relatively unimportant trivia. Of course, if that is the case, we may have proven James Thurber’s point: “While man has sometimes succeeded in dragging the dog down to his level, the dog has only occasionally succeeded in raising man to his level of sagacity.”
Unfortunately, if we mistake nonessential for essential, we may do more than simply waste our time and the dog’s. We may be willing to justify the use of force in foolish, frivolous and quite possibly unfair ways. Because a living being will pay for our mistakes, we need to think long and hard about what we consider important. Assignment of relative value in our lives can easily go askew. We may assign great importance to things that help us gloss over sad or empty places in ourselves, and clutch these things (ideas, possessions, religion, people, animals, work and more) to us with fierceness, holding on at almost any cost. The risk of cruelty runs high any time we shield the bare, naked ladies of our soul with another living being, be that a man, woman, child or dog. Perhaps saddest and most ironic is this: Of all whom we might hurt as we use them in some way to shield or soothe ourselves, the dog is the only one who would stand unflinching before our darkest secrets and most painful wounds and love us still, forgiving us again and again for being human.
18
IN SEARCH OF SOULFUL COHERENCE
Shall we make a new rule of life from tonight: always to try to be
a little kinder than is necessary’?
J.M. BARRIE
IT IS SAD THAT WE ARE WILLING TO ASK “How hard should I hit the dog?” It is sad that incoherent philosophies go unchallenged, but until we can clarify for ourselves what it is that we think and feel and therefore how we shall act, we cannot raise much protest. How then do we begin? As Philip Greven writes in Spare the Child: “We need to create for ourselves charts and maps, however flawed or inadequate they might initially be, so that we can find our way through this maze of punishments that stretch back in time as far as we can see.” We have to demand coherence from ourselves, congruence in our actions, words and deeds. We have to be, if we claim to be our dogs’ best friends, the kind of friend we would like for ourselves.
However sincere and honorable in our intentions, mistakes are inevitable. Though we can try to live a life that is unfailingly in agreement with our deepest desire to be fair and humane, we are only human. Set against the broad background of love and respect, our mistakes may sting, but they also offer a chance to correct our course, to learn more, to accept the grace of forgiveness. Though always miserable with my mistakes, I have learned not to throw them away like something foul to be discarded as quickly as possible. Instead, I embrace them, sifting through the unpleasant layers until at last I find what lies at the heart of all my errors: a small gem of self-knowledge.
While working on this book, we were blessed by the arrival of Badger, an adolescent Labrador/Chow cross that many might label a problem dog. His owner had grown afraid of him, and it was easy to see why. Pushed to do something he did not want to do, Badger would physically resist, using his nearly eighty pounds to good effect as he pulled away, leaped up or pushed with stiff legs at an insistent person. If the person persisted—trying, for example, to get the dog outside and hooked on his tether—Badger would grow still, his lip twitching in the beginnings of a snarl. Pushed a bit further, he’d reveal more teeth, offering a startling display of white against his dark muzzle. And pushed further still, he’d make an openmouthed gesture toward the offending hand. If he deemed it necessary, he would firmly grab a hand or arm, never breaking skin, never even leaving a vague welt, but with the pressure of his jaws and a steady look in his eyes, he’d give the clear impression that if forced to really bite you, he just might. He had never yet hurt anyone, but at some point, it was possible that he might feel that he needed to bite in order to make his point.
Though it would have been easy to do as others already had and label Badger as “aggressive,” the truth of who Badger is as a dog was much more complicated than that. But our descriptions of dogs do not usually encompass the fullness of both the light and the dark. Labels tend to exclude all but the quality or set of qualities they are attempting to describe. I am endlessly bemused by how quickly we leap to label others (something I am as guilty of as anyone else), and yet what we long for from others is an acceptance and recognition of all that we are, not merely that which fits within a label. We resent being pigeonholed in neat ways that exclude the fullness of who we are, even the seemingly contradictory facets of ourselves that reside merrily side by side in the same mind: the brusque football player who serenely knits, the cynical parole officer who breeds canaries and finches, the avid deer hunter who steadfastly refuses to shoot rabbits even when they destroy his garden. Badger was a dog with some unpleasant habitual responses to certain situations, but he was also much more than that. If we would know another being on an intimate level, we need to allow for and even deliberately create room in our own minds and hearts for the contradictions and juxtapositions that make each of us unique though perhaps also maddening or puzzling. If we see nothing more than can be neatly contained with a label, the fullness of any individual light will never be able to shine, at least not on us.
Badger was much more than a dog who had learned that the threat of biting was an effective way of communicating his confusion, frustration and resentment. He was also loving, funny, forgiving, tolerant of other animals, deeply intelligent and most of all, a dog who wanted nothing quite so much as the opportunity to be with or near us whatever we were doing. This was not a dog who would simply become aggressive for no reason—in face, unless triggered in very specific ways, he was remarkable for just how easygoing and pleasant he was. And there was no joy in his dental displays, just an exasperated reluctance to have to make his point clear. I was sure that some attention, exercise and clear, consistent rules were going to eliminate Badger’s need to threaten. I was also sure that conflict was inevitable as we learned about each other.
Our first conflict with Badger arose on the very first night. Having had him for less than six hours, it seemed prudent to have him spend the night in a crate next to our bed, an arrangement that made it clear he was part of the family and also kept him safe and unable to make any mistakes while we slept. Though nearly eighty pounds, Badger was—as we kept reminding ourselves—just a big puppy in terms of what he knew, and we needed to treat him as we would any untrained pup and not provide more freedom or privileges than he had earned.
To us, putting Badger in a comfortably bedded crate just an arm’s length from my pillow seemed quite fair. He was, after all, well accustomed to a crate. But that was also the underlying problem. Our perspective was that a crate was a necessary safety, and we had the additional knowledge that Badger would be crated as little as possible; given our at-home, on-the-farm lifestyle, that meant very little indeed. Badger’s experience was that stepping into a crate was just the beginning of a very long and lonely day—his owner had worked a full-time job. Little surprise then that having enjoyed more freedom and excitement in his first night with us than he had ever known in his entire life, Badger was unwilling to give it up, bracing himself as if we were trying to push him over a cliff instead of simply guiding him into a crate. Fortunately, he was rather taken with the tasty treats we offered, and without thinking it through, he followed the handful of treats we tossed into the crate. Swallowing the goodies, he turned to face me and pushed his nose against the crate door, dismay crossing his face when he realized he was locked in. He stood for a long moment and then lay down with a deep sigh, his eyes still on my face. In that thoughtful, considering gaze, I could see an intelligence that would not as readily sell out for a mess of pottage again.
Sure enough, Badger proved to be the kind of dog who was an acute observer with a prodigious memory and the ability to sit back and consider a
situation before acting. Aware of the potential conflicts and committed to doing what was best for our long-term relationship, both John and I were ready, armed with patience, the necessary time, delicious treats and a soft hand in the collar to ask and guide. Though it might take a few extra minutes, though there were inevitable moments where our requests outstripped his agreement and he would begin to mouth our hands or arm in warning (gently, always) Badger eventually ended up where we needed him to be, and we heaped praise on his head.
ALWAYS DARKEST BEFORE DAWN
What do they say about patience? That you become aware of needing it only when you run out of it? I ran out of patience for Badger about two weeks after his arrival, on an icy morning when, with less than two hours of sleep under my belt, the dogs let me know that they needed to go out. Tired, cold and wishing I lived with African violets and not dogs, I stumbled downstairs to make sure that Badger and puppy Bird actually made it all the way outside. Bleary eyed, I offered praise for well-placed puddles (it’s hard to sound genuinely pleased when your teeth are chattering wildly) and headed back to bed, a swirl of happily empty dogs around me as I climbed the stairs. I noticed Badger in the crowd of dogs and smiled to myself as he rounded the corner toward the bedroom with wagging tail. “He feels right at home,” I told myself, little suspecting how right I was. By the time I reached the bedroom, I could see an unwelcome sight in the faint predawn light: Badger was sprawled across the bed.
With a sigh, I grabbed the dog biscuits, and with an enthusiasm I did not feel, I began asking all seven dogs to sit and lie down for their biscuits, a ploy meant to lure Badger off the bed. He was willing to leave the bed in order to get his biscuit, but when I reached for his collar and tried to guide him toward the crate, he twisted out of my hand and leaped back into bed. Annoyed, I reached for him again, and this time he flipped over on his back, all four legs wildly punching the air and pushing me away. Long accustomed to dealing with such shenanigans from dogs, I expertly reached past his legs toward the collar—and was met with a display of teeth that gleamed in the predawn dark. Unafraid but increasingly annoyed, I tugged on his collar and struggled to get him on his feet. “Dammit all, Badger, just get in the crate!”
His response was to grab my arm, and anger flared up in me. My anger wasn’t from pain; his jaws on my arm didn’t hurt in the least. Though there was pressure that was not to be ignored, Badger was always precise and well aware of what he was doing, and I trusted this (though I might not have with another dog). I was angry because something as simple as getting a dog into a crate involved such a bloody waste of time when I was exhausted and cold and all I wanted was for him to be safe while I slept. This did not seem to be an impossible request, especially for a dog who knew perfectly well how to get into a crate. At that precise moment, focused only on what I wanted and how I felt and how pissed off I was by the whole damn thing, I fell a long, long way. Out of patience and not even a little curious about Badger’s feelings or his point of view, I was a long way from empathy or fairness and much closer to the edge of cruelty than I’d been in a long time.
When we experience the death of curiosity or patience, empathy is shut down. To be empathetic, a few conditions are necessary: We are interested, curious, intrigued by the other’s point of view. We extend the time and patience to explore what may be possible. We are both willing and able to set aside our own fears, feelings, and even needs, making room for the other’s needs and feelings to be laid out for examination and study. When we do this, when we engage our curiosity in a patient way and empty ourselves of ourselves in order to fill ourselves with another’s perspective, then we are acting in a soulful way. The connection thus achieved is not only powerful, it can be profound in its ability to change us. The most difficult work of empathy may be just this: truly clearing the table of our own stuff, at least for the moment, and not begrudging the space required for another’s stuff.
But there was nothing soulful about what I was doing, and the only thing on the table at that moment was my stuff. With gritted teeth and a fire of righteousness burning in me, I unceremoniously hauled Badger to his feet by his collar and snarled at him to get in the crate. By way of response, Badger proved to have far more control of his emotions than I did of mine: He did not bite me. He grabbed me harder, though still without really hurting me, and twisted upside down again, my arm still in his mouth, my fingers painfully trapped in his collar (which hurt like hell). For a long moment, we struggled, and all the while I was angrily wondering why on earth I had ever agreed to take on this brat of a dog, this spoiled, foolish, idiotic animal, this stupid beast. Finally freeing my fingers from his collar, I slapped him on the muzzle. No longer thinking, hurting, out of patience and past the point of caring, I slapped him. Once. Hard.
With a snarl of surprise, Badger let go of my arm and reared back, showing me all his teeth, watching me with wary eyes. For a long heartbeat, I found myself staring into the eyes of a very angry dog and felt the heat of my own anger—I was no longer cold as I had been only moments before when I stood watching dogs pee in the frost-glazed yard. Suddenly aware of how off balance I was at the bed’s edge, I adjusted my stance, and as I did, I saw Badger’s eyes go wide. Anticipating that I might again reach for him, he pulled back slightly. Never taking his eyes from mine, he snapped at the air and barked, a rising shrill bark of clear frustration.
And then, called to myself by the clack-clack-clack of his deliberately impotent jaws in the void between us, I could see again. My anger melted in a rush of empathy, and I could see Badger again. And what I saw was a dog whose only crime was that he wanted to sleep beside me in a warm, soft bed; a dog whose experience had taught him that crates meant loneliness; a dog who believed that people would yield to a show of teeth. I saw a dog who found himself confused by my response and frightened by my sudden anger, especially when he had met nothing but patience from me up to that moment. This was not a bad dog or a defiant dog. This was an untrained dog pushing for what he wanted, a dog testing—as all adolescents do—and trying to find out what the rules were. Most of all, this was a dog defending himself, with dignity and restraint, against what I knew was a sad moment. Though I pride myself on how far I’ve come from the harsh past, my grasp on what it is to be humane and fair proved too tenuous to allow me to swing safely past that dark moment when a dog’s teeth gnashed in the predawn silence.
All the fight drained out of me. I apologized to Badger, who heard my apology with wary watchfulness, and then I headed downstairs to regroup in the kitchen, where I asked each dog to sit and rewarded them with a small treat. I quietly snapped a leash onto Badger’s collar before handing him his treat, relieved to see that he did not flinch or draw back from my hand but wagged his tail and looked trustingly into my face as I smiled down at him. And then we made our way back upstairs. With a bit of beef jerky, a little careful but nonthreatening maneuvering and judicious use of the leash I was able to get Badger to enter the crate without much fuss. (I think that much like me, Badger was shocked and surprised by our nasty encounter. Given an opportunity to avoid another confrontation with someone who had proven herself possibly quite aggressive, he was all too glad to get into his crate.) I lay down with a heavy heart and turned to face Badger in his crate as other dogs settled themselves beside me in their accustomed ways. In the faint light that held the promise of the coming day, Badger’s eyes gleamed steadily, watching me.
In the dark, I lay watching him. Thinking about our predawn fiasco, I realized that if he had not been wearing a collar I would have had no option but to bring my full attention, creativity and respect to asking Badger to kennel up. There would have been nothing unusual about this. John and I routinely move the cattle on the farm not by force or even halters, but by creating an invitation, by opening a place where willing partnership can exist. Badger’s collar had been left on ostensibly as an aid in guiding him through the complexities of the new rules he needed to learn, a strange justification when we regularly handle
animals that weigh half a ton or more without such aids. Instead, the collar proved to be a crutch. Hand in collar, I had been tempted to force Badger instead of seeking his cooperation. Hand in his collar, the sleep-deprived, irritable, cold and selfish me could justify using more compulsion when Badger did precisely what I knew he would do in response to being forced—fight back, threaten. How foolish and unfair of me to approach him in a way that I knew he would resist, and then feel justified in punishing him for that resistance.
When I woke up a few hours later, I took his collar off. This was both a profoundly symbolic gesture and a heartfelt promise. None of my dogs wear a collar at home since the setup of the house and farm makes collar and leash unnecessary except for walks in town or while traveling. In our home, dogs wearing collars are easily identified as guests or temporary members of the group. In the simple act of removing his collar, I made Badger a family member, not a conditional guest. I also made a promise to Badger and myself to honor our relationship and to build it one moment at a time.
I am deeply grateful for Badger’s forgiveness, though I know that in our relationship, he has good cause to be glad of my forgiveness as well. Badger is not a perfect dog, which is a good thing, because I am not a perfect person. Each of us forgets at times to listen to the other. Each of us gets lost in our own view of the world; each insists and resists in silly, prideful ways. But we don’t go very far down the path in those dark woods before we turn back. He keeps me honest. Arriving with his own baggage and knee-jerk responses, he helps me sort through my own. Not as fortunate as the dogs who were born here and thus grew up never knowing the need to threaten in order to be heard, Badger reminds me of the power of simply listening and really hearing another being. In his expanding trust and joy, he offers a poignant reminder of how much relief can be offered when we hear the faintest trace of confusion or anxiety in a loved one’s communication. The traces of where a collar once sat on his neck can no longer be seen in his fur. He wears a collar happily now, for it means rides in the car or a trip to training class or an adventure, not a way to bind him against his will or bind him to mine. What binds us, this beautiful dark dog and I, cannot be seen. This bond we have forged is what the Little Prince spoke of: “What is essential is invisible to the eye and can only be seen rightly with the heart.”