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barton cole :: veni, vedi, vero scripsi
 Friday, January 16, 2009
Once upon a time, I was a "cat person." That's right - I was devoted to my cats, but didn't have time for dogs, and couldn't, in fact, understand why someone would want to live with one and deal with all the work: the walking, the dealing with the crap…
Still, there were some dogs that I admired, but as a rule, I was pretty ambivalent about dogs.
Part of my awakening as an adult over the last twenty years or so has been a constant and deeper embedment with my natural surroundings - I pay more attention to the flora and fauna, and couldn't be happier than I was today, for instance, when I was working in the woods, and chirped at a winter wren, encouraging it to be interested and follow me, which it did (they're my favorite small bird - which may be on the quiz). Not long after, a douglas squirrel (native to woods in our region) got my attention by chirping at me from a few feet higher on a douglas fir. I was on my way to my truck for a tool, so I told him to hang on: I'd have some nuts for him in a few minutes…
[NB: I keep nuts - usually pistachios, since everybody likes them - and birdseed - blend of black oil sunflower and cracked corn - and dog biscuits stashed in my truck, so I can feed whoever might be around - occasionally, chickadees, which are highly gregarious, will eat out of my hand]
But I never had time for dogs, as devoted to animals as I felt I was, and declared myself to be.
Eventually, I realized I was nothing but an elitist - ever the trap, especially when humans think about animals, or in the case of Orwell's Animal Farm, when animals think about themselves: "Four legs good… two legs better!"
I made a rational decision that I needed to embrace dogs, and be curious about them, and get to know them, and include them in my personal zodiac (circle of animals).
It wasn't that I got to know a special dog, who made me feel deeper about dogs, but being a Capricorn, I was rational (I believe I tend to be, although I'm sure I could find dissent), and decided to feel deeper about dogs.
And for this task - to be the ambassador for all dogs everywhere in my life - I chose the nastiest, little dog I knew - an obnoxious Chihuahua that belonged to a nutso woman that I worked with.
He was one of those dogs that didn't understand my boundaries, and would leap in my lap spontaneously - even when I had seen him coming and tried, discreetly, to actively discourage it (had to be discreet - it was politically unwise for the nutjob dog's nutjob owner to realize that this particular nutjob - me - didn't like her dog - in fact, would have moved slowly if an eagle were swooping down after the dog…)
I decided that I would befriend this nasty little dog, and that by having through this intense hazing ordeal, this trial by nasty dog, I would be welcomed in the Dog Clan (as I am in the Wren Clan and Squirrel Clan, as noted above, and if you follow me…).
Quite an undertaking, really, but insert your own mental montage of me befriending the dog, giving it treats of my own when I declared my satisfaction with its behavior, which improved… you may complete your montage with me sitting on a bench next to the dog looking over the East River at Manhattan and the sunset, but that's just a bit too much of a stretch. Suffice it to say that I did become friends with this little dog, who also befriended me.
  A few years later, I met my cousin's dog, Mauritz, in Germany. He's a Hofawart (Hoe-fuh-vart) which means "farm guardian" auf Deutsch), and was bred in East Germany, known for breeders and trainers of gentle dogs, while the West Germans bred them for police work.
A big dog, Mauritz was also handsome, with the false eyespots and the black-and-tan gorgeous long coat.
I had learned that the best way to approach a dog, when meeting it, was to ask it to do something, and praise it when it complied.
I gave Morris my standard suggestion, "Sit." But he wouldn't. Most dogs, in my experience, know that one - in fact, I am usually stunned when I meet a dog who won't simply sit.
Oops - I remembered where I was, and asked again, quite politely, "Mauritz, setzen Sie, bitte," and he promptly did.
I met another dog on that journey, an Irish dog living in Hamburg, who spoke no German at all, but his English was quite good...
I got to know Mauritz well during the two weeks I spent with him, and discovered that he had a fundamental understanding of geometry:
Like many dogs, Mauritz was into "The Ball." He would prance and leap through tall grass, which was splendid to see, and dash across the yard after it; a favorite game was to walk around the yard with a beer (a Flensburger Pilsener), kicking the ball for Mauritz, who would scamper after it, and return it, tossing it with a flip of his chin to give it a little air, so it would bounce a bit, so you could boot it farther.
But if the ball were on the ground, and you were poised to kick it, Mauritz would line himself up with it about three meters away like a lineup for a soccer penalty kick.
If, as you addressed the ball, poised to kick, you stepped to the side, Mauritz would shift himself accordingly, so that all three components were on a line, geometrically. A small step by the one with the ball, but he would have to step a couple of meters to the side, which he would do with gusto. The game was economical that way, giving Mauritz much sport as one did a slow foxtrot at the ball, beer in hand.
Although a rural resident, I saw Mauritz in action in an "urban" environment, walking in a little town near Denmark - he stopped at all the curbs until instructed to proceed, a skill he learned when young and living in Hamburg.
These dogs taught me that they have an excellent capacity for complying with instructions, but like anybody, they need the instructions to be clear.
Today, I was at the lumber yard getting some quotes on materials; while I leaned on the counter, one of the staff asked me, "Do you have a black dog?"
I raised an eyebrow.
"No," I said, "why?"
"There's one just walked by the door, outside."
"Oh," I told him, "If I had a black dog, it would be right here with me, and you'd be amazed at what a good dog it is."
What's a good dog?
A dog who does just what you tell it to do. You give a dog a clear job description, and they're off and running, eager to get the task done. All you need to be is clear (a subtle Zenmaster thing that dogs can do, similar to the Zenmaster thing that cats can do, showing us ways to live - in this case, by seeking mental clarity - if you can explain it to your dog, you can understand yourself).
 I know another dog, my friend Choux, who was described to me, when I met her, as "a really dumb dog."
Well, in my experience, dogs aren't dumb - they're good at doing what they're told to do. If you think a dog is dumb, maybe you're dumb. The Zen mirror again (which, being a Zen mirror, is Empty).
Within five minutes after meeting this "dumb" pooch, she was looking at me, waiting for the subtle shift of eyebrow and nod to indicate that she could now eat the cookie that was sitting on the ground between her two front feet, which she was too nervous to even look at, fixating on me instead.
She has since learned how to hold a cookie on her long, slender nose - cross-eyed dogs are particularly charming - and wait for the nod. Smart pooch.
And I dispense lots of loving to my dog friends, knowing that I will start out, as a default, right up at or near the top of their hierarchy, and that they will want lots of jovial praise.
Dogs, like lots of other animals, tend to like me, and I like them.
I see a couple of guys who walk by my house with their dogs; neither of them uses a leash, but the behavior is totally different.
One of the guys walks in the morning, past my house every day, no matter what the weather, with his old Russian wolfhound walking alongside, the two of them in tandem, connected like Fred and Ginger, even when the dog is checking out who peed on the fence post, then picking up and catching up.
I enjoy this simple evidence of mutual respect, how the two of them pay attention to each other, and walk together.
This other dude, though, is a different story. The dog, an old golden retriever, comes in my yard and carries out his annoying dog business, and eating the food left out on the shrine for the crows to eat, and I holler at him to leave and he won't . I holler at his dude, who often walks along reading the local newspaper, "Hey, get your [goddam] dog out of my [goddam] yard!"
Both the dudes in this scenario, human and dog, aren't paying attention.
But if you work with a dog, and make it clear what you like and don't like, you can encourage them to engage in all kinds of fun, proactive behavior, and find fulfillment by completing the task you have set out for them.
And of course, I am obligated to make an ironic leap out of all this, but I will do that tomorrow.
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