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

  Dynamic quality is unpredictable, and impossible to replicate. Quite possibly it is the uniqueness of dynamic quality that makes it so intense or meaningful for us. Moments of dynamic quality occur seemingly at random: a spectacular sunset, a red fox walking out from the woods to stand gazing into your eyes, the fairyland of a tree freshly dusted in snow, the sudden arc of a meteor across the sky. These may be dramatic moments, but there are others less dramatic but equally powerful: the sound of a child softly singing to herself, the silky feel of a dog's ear sliding between your fingers, the warm pressure of a body curled lovingly around your own, the sweet smell of rain in the spring. Moments of dynamic quality, moments with the potential to move our very souls, are all around us. Though unpredictable, they require only one thing from us in order for us to experience them: We must be available. Because it resides in your response, dynamic quality is everywhere you are, if you are open to the experience, willing to seek it out, interested and alert to what is happening within and beyond yourself. Sweepstakes promoters have it all wrong: In life, you Must be present to win. If we are glued to the nightly news, we will not see the sunset. We also will not be available to see our dogs or anyone else we love. We must actively seek moments of dynamic quality by being open to and aware of them, by being present in the moment, by bringing ourselves to the world and through the world. Every moment of dynamic quality is possible because of this: You are there, and you are aware. Is the gaze of a red fox any less piercing if you are not there to connect with it? Perhaps. But what is possible when your eyes connect with fox eyes is possible only with you present and aware. Potential connections are all around us, yet we sometimes march through our days without bringing our awareness to each passing moment, moving in a preset lockstep that answers not to natural rhythms or even those of our own hearts, but to some artificial, externally generated beat that we agree to and abide by. This is not without price: We miss the moments of authentic connection, the dynamic moments. Dogs remind us that the only place that dynamic quality can occur is in the moment of now. For those intrigued by the infinite possibilities of what can happen when we nurture the dynamic quality of our relationships with dogs and others, the only requirement is a constant awareness that at every moment we are choosing to create events of quality. To do so, we must invest ourselves fully in the moment, bringing our awareness and curiosity to even the simplest acts of connection. Nothing in life is free, but our investment of ourselves is richly rewarded in profound and moving connections with our dogs, and in turn, a powerful connection with the natural world around us and with our deepest selves.

  You ask of my companions. Hills, sir, and the sundown, and a dog as large as myself. emily Dickinson

  In june, the roar of haying equipment fills our farm's fields. It seems chaotic, this noisy movement of man and machine, but flowing like a cool green wake behind the tractor there appears an orderly row of cut hay heaped gently to dry awhile before being baled. All day, diesel fumes hang in sunlit haze over the fields but are gone with the cooling breezes of evening. A mosquito buzzes my ear as I walk in the emptiness between the sweet, wilting piles, thinking of the coming winter when these simple grasses will fill our cattle's bellies. For my dogs, there are no thoughts of cattle or of winter. They have only a passing interest in the cleared areas where I walk, but with an intensity that seems unusual in these familiar fields, they move along the long piles of hay. Methodically, they work row after row, tails wagging furiously then stilled for just a moment as they swallow something before moving on. I know what they are after, though I often do not tell visiting guests who think this scene a most pastoral sight: The dogs are searching for and eating the hapless victims of haying season. Mice, birds, snakes, rabbits, moles, shrews, frogs and voles have all appeared at times in the drying hay. My dogs have learned that hay season means a potluck dinner. But for all their intensity as they search, for all the delicious (only to dogs) snacks that they find, the dogs never forget that we are together. Between mouthfuls of mouse, they glance up to check my progress through the field. Sometimes, I am content to sit and watch them scavenge, thinking about stories I have read of fox and coyote following farmers who are working to bring in a hay crop; the easy pickings of hay row cuisine are not a secret known only to my dogs. But sometimes, I am headed elsewhere and pass through the hay field only as I must. As I move, the dogs keep track of me as completely as I keep track of them. We share this responsibility of togetherness. Noting that I'm about to enter the hemlock woods and head to the creek, they grab one last mystery morsel and race after me. Though they may range away in search of a tantalizing scent or to furiously mark where the coyotes have left their messages in the night, the dogs circle back to me as I choose another trail or stop to investigate a small patch of hepatica growing under the hemlocks' shade. We are, at every step, together, without the need for words, bound by the heart's invisible leash, unmistakably connected.

  Baseball great Yogi Berra summed it up rather neatly: "You can observe a lot by just watching." And he was right-few things tell me as much about the quality of the connection between a person and a dog as what can be observed as they just walk along together. This sounds so simple comto be with a dog as we walk. What I mean by "with" is a connection that is not easily defined but that is evident in its absence. It is a choice of two to be together, not a matter of tying someone to you with leash and collar. At my seminars, I make a routine practice of standing where I can watch people and their dogs entering the building; at home, I watch clients take their dogs from the car and walk them toward me. If there were a single snapshot moment that encapsulates a relationship, it might be simply this: how a person and a dog walk together. My friend Rosemary has driven from Illinois to spend a few days at our farm with her four dogs. She is tired from the long drive, and after hugging us, asks if she might walk her dogs. As she opens the side door of her van, I can hear her talking quietly to the excited dogs. Although they are good travelers, even the best of dogs grows weary of confinement after fifteen hours on the road. As she leans into the van and gathers their leashes, I see Teddy's nose appear over her shoulder, nostrils flaring as he drinks in the farm scents. Poking out past Rosemary's hip is Zena's black button of a nose, and though I can see only a little of the graying muzzle, I can tell that she is wriggling in the delight of arrival. With all leashes securely attached, Rosemary steps back. The dogs stand eager but contained, waiting for her quiet

  "okay." When it comes, they flow from the van, a river of feet and tails, ears and eyes and noses busy trying to take in the whole farm at once. Despite their excitement, they do not lose track of Rosemary, nor do they pull on their leashes. As she shuts the van door, they glance up at her as if to ask, "Are you ready yet?" While they wait, impatient but polite, she carefully organizes the leashes in her hand and says, "Let's go, guys." And off they go, together in every sense of the word. Not surprisingly, Rosemary has an excellent relationship with her dogs-in every moment of her interactions with them, she makes it clear to them and to all watching that she is truly with them. In turn, they are decidedly with her, whether in the quiet empty moments or when working on a task. Any difficulties, when they arise, are a matter of miscommunication between Rosemary and the dog or an inability on her part or theirs to work together in just that way, not a failure of clear leadership or the result of conflicts in the relationship itself Walking the dog is the stuff of cartoons for good reason. The eternal question: "Who is walking whom?" is amusing only on the surface, just as jokes about henpecked husbands are only superficially funny. Examined at a deeper level, there isn't anything funny at all about relationships or leashes taut with tension. Perhaps the humor arises from a wry recognition that relationships are not always what we'd like them to be, from our unstated relief that others have the same difficulties with their dogs or spouses or bosses or children that we do. But we are uncomfortably aware-if we take a moment to think about it-that an unbalanced or frustrating relationship is no laughing ma
tter. How important is the quality of connection? How critical is it that we learn on the most basic level to truly walk with a dog? It may be, quite literally, a matter of life and death. The leading cause of death in dogs in Western countries is behavior-unacceptable, uncontrollable, inap propriate behavior. Not disease. Not being hit by a car. Not neglect or abuse (though an argument could be made that a failure to train a dog so that he can act appropriately is precisely a form of neglect and abuse). If we fail to develop a high quality of connection with our dogs, we may fail them in the most terrible of ways, and they may pay for our failure with their lives. Whether we care to admit it or not, we reveal a good deal about our relationships with our dogs in the simple act of walking together. Do we excuse our dogs" behavior? Ignore them? Helplessly allow ourselves to be towed along like so much baggage? Are we really with them as we walk along, attentive to their comments and interests, ready to help or defend or reassure them as needed? Trainer Sherry Holm has a lovely way of looking at the simple act of walking with a dog: Is there a balance between dog and person, or is the energy flowing too heavily in one direction? Pulling on lead, at a very fundamental level, is an exchange of energy. When two are moving together in harmony, there is a balance that gently sways back and forth across the two. Moving together toward a common goal or with a mutual purpose, there is no pull of energy one way or the other. Imagine that everywhere you went with a human friend, you had To hold his hand and he yours. Now imagine that at every step, he was pulling hard. Would you want to go for walks with such a friend? What we would say to such a friend is this: Why can't you just be with me? Just walk nicely here, by my side, and we'll go together. Consider how the connection with your dog feels. Do you feel as if you are being towed? As if you must struggle to guide or direct the dog? Does the thought of walking with your dog bring up feelings of joy or is there some frustration? It is considerably annoying to walk with a constant struggle, and few of us like having our arm pulled (sometimes quite hard) by our canine friends. Yet with our dogs, we may think that saying "Just walk nicely by my side" is not possible, or even if we wish it were, we don't know how to say it. If we view the leash as merely a restraint that keeps the dog safe, we may view pulling on the lead as the end product of the conflict between what the dog wants to do and what the leash allows him to do. We resign ourselves to the struggle, never realizing that it is not necessary, unaware that we are perhaps undermining the very quality of our relationship.