For the Love of a Dog (39 page)

As much as anything on earth, dogs want to understand us. Given that we want to be understood, you’d think there wouldn’t be a problem. However, misunderstandings are so common that many trainers believe they are the primary source of the problems that people have with their dogs. It shouldn’t be surprising that miscommunication is so common—look at how often it happens with our own species. And here we are trying to communicate with individuals of a whole other species. No wonder we have trouble.

Effective communication is so vital to our relationship with dogs that I wrote my first full-length book about it. In
The Other End of the Leash
, I explain at length how our primate movements and behaviors mean one thing to us, but something else altogether to dogs. I won’t rewrite that book here, but it is worth mentioning a few examples that can be particularly problematic. One relates to how we move our bodies when we call our dogs to come. When we call dogs to return to us, we humans tend to look straight at their faces and move slightly toward them. Why wouldn’t we? That’s the polite way to initiate social interaction with another human, and it is so ingrained in us that we don’t even think about it. However, in dog language, that direct stare and forward movement is a stopping signal, one that means the opposite of what we intend. Your dog is much more likely to come if you turn your body sideways and move backward a bit while you call “Come!” It’s not magic—it’s not going to stop your dog if he’s in the middle of chasing a squirrel—but it’s a simple thing that can make a difference. I got
more mail about this one small aspect of
The Other End of the Leash
than about anything else in the book. Several people swore to me it saved their dog’s life.

Another common cause of miscommunication between people and dogs is the act of hugging. We humans are hugging fools—we hug for comfort, we hug to express love, and we hug when we’re excited. Hugging is a good thing to people, and it’s natural that we’d hug our dogs for the same reasons. But dogs don’t hug other dogs. The only equivalent of a hug in dog society is when a dog puts his head or foreleg over the other’s shoulders and presses down. That’s a display of social status, not a sign of affection. Most of our dogs, bless their hearts, put up with our hugging, but that doesn’t mean they enjoy it.
⁹
However, some dogs don’t put up with it. Every trainer and behaviorist has heard too many stories of little children who were bitten on the face when they tried to hug the family dog. There’s a lot we can do about this: we can selectively breed for amiable dogs who don’t take our foolishness too seriously, we can condition our dogs to enjoy hugging (in which every hug leads to a treat when they’re young and impressionable), and we can teach our children not to hug unfamiliar dogs. None of those things will happen, however, if we aren’t aware of the difference in communication styles between the two species.

Those are just two examples of how confusing life can be to a dog who is dependent upon an individual of an entirely different species. Anyone who has ever been in a foreign country, whose language he doesn’t speak, knows how it feels when others expect you to understand them, but you can’t. If dogs can be happy or sad—and I’ve argued throughout this book that of course they can—then they can suffer when they’re confused, or worse yet, punished for something they didn’t understand. That’s why I think the most important thing we can do to make our dogs happy is to learn to communicate with them. That means learning about how our dogs read our own body language and learning how to teach them to want to do what we ask of them. The best way to do that is to go to dog training classes, work with a
trainer, and read books or watch videos on how to train and communicate with a dog. I don’t understand why we, as a species, are so resistant to learning how to train our dogs when we don’t hesitate to get coaching for other things. (Which is more complicated—your dog, or a piano? Would you hesitate to hire someone to teach your child to play the piano?) We need to move beyond the belief that, like Lassie and Timmy on television, a nice person and a good dog just naturally get along, and are able to understand each other just because they love each other so much. Psychologists know how well that works out between husbands and wives—sometimes not so well. In hopes of inspiring readers to learn more, I’ve listed some great sources on general dog training in References (cited under Chapter 6).

Each dog is different from every other dog. Surely that sentence does nothing but state the obvious. And yet, I see so many people who can’t accept that, unlike their first Black Labrador Retriever, their second one doesn’t enjoy playing ball but would rather use his nose tracking chipmunks in the backyard. Dog breeds aren’t like brand names, with every tenth widget being checked for product consistency. The whole point (at least from a biological perspective) of sexual reproduction is to create variety, and that means that every single dog in existence is unique, just as every single human being—even those who are “identical twins”—is different from every other. That makes it essential to get to know your dog as an individual, and to do what you can to help her be the best she can be. Sometimes that means accepting that she’ll never be what you had hoped for; just as Pip turned out to be worthless on sheep, your dog may be an abject failure at barking to tell you visitors have arrived, or at competing in dog shows with the drive and intensity required to get her a championship. But, like Pip, your dog may have other skills and gifts that you weren’t expecting, and may turn out to be a better dog than you ever imagined.

Years ago, after my first sheep-guarding dog, Bo Peep, died, I purchased a replacement Great Pyrenees named Thulie. Her breeders had kept her longer than usual, because she’d initially seemed so, well … goofy. But when she was around a year and a half old, she’d seemed to
come into her own, so we agreed I’d bring her to the farm for a three-month trial as the farm’s new guard dog. Thulie was huge and sweet and fluffy white, and in two weeks everyone on the farm hated her. In her excitement over just about anything, Thulie knocked over sheep, dogs, and me in equal proportion. She got so excited when cars drove by the barn that she’d bowl the sheep over while running to the fence. I still remember seeing my elegant ewe Harriet suspended momentarily in the air, hooves pointing to the sky, thanks to Thulie charging through the flock to bark at a milk truck. After nursing one too many bruises on my shins, and helping one too many sheep back onto their feet, I called the breeder and told her Thulie wasn’t going to work out.

Thulie wasn’t the right dog for Redstart Farm, but she was, in many ways, a wonderful dog. There was just too much to stimulate her here, and it was clear she needed a home away from a road, without Border Collies dashing here and there every time she looked up. Last I heard, she’d found a perfect fit at another, quieter farm, where the environment brought out the best in her, rather than the worst.

I bring Thulie up because Patrick, my husband at the time, said, “I don’t understand why you’re returning her. You’re a dog trainer; why don’t you just train her to do what you want?” It’s true that you can train dogs (and all animals) to do an amazing number of things, but you can’t do personality transplants on dogs any more than you can on people. Think of your own life, and your own personality. Doesn’t it sometimes feel like you’re swimming upstream when you’re working at one task, while others feel almost effortless? We’re all suited to do different things, and aren’t equally adept at everything we attempt. Trying to turn Thulie into the right dog for Redstart Farm would have been the equivalent of swimming up Niagara Falls, or trying to turn Donald Trump into someone who’d be happy as a monk. You’re welcome to try, but don’t call me for advice about how to do it.

Keep this in mind with your own dog. She is who she is, and the key to her happiness is knowing what parts of her you can change through training and conditioning (which, don’t get me wrong, is a lot), and what parts of her need to be accepted and celebrated. Just as good parents learn who their children are as individuals rather than try to fit them into a preconceived mold, be open to who your dog really is, and help her become all she can be.

“Oh, Pumpkin just loves petting—don’t you, Pumpkin?” Cynthia said, patting her Cocker Spaniel’s head as he tried to investigate the office. Pumpkin’s owner had come to me for some advice about behavioral issues, and she clearly loved her dog as much as we all, human and dog would like to be loved. Only one problem: while Cynthia beamed with love, Pumpkin didn’t look quite so happy. In truth, he looked downright miserable. He kept turning his head away from her hand, trying to avoid her touch, no matter how loving it might have been
.

This is not an uncommon scenario, in which a responsible, caring person pets a dog who purportedly adores petting, while the dog moves heaven and earth trying to get away. Ask any dog trainer or behaviorist: every day, in our offices, in classes, and on neighborhood streets, we see people cheerfully petting their dogs, while the dogs look miserable.

Bear with me here; I’m not saying dogs don’t love to be petted. Dogs do love petting. They also don’t. Understanding that can make a big difference in how happy you make your dog. If we’d just put ourselves in our dogs’ paws for a minute, it would all make sense. Like most humans, you probably love a good back rub. Just thinking about one can make most of us all soft and cozy. But you don’t want one every minute of every day, do you? What if you’re in an important meeting, about to argue against a ridiculous new policy proposed by your boss? How about when you’re playing softball in the league’s quarterfinals— want your honey to come up and rub your neck when you’re up at bat? I don’t think so. What if you
do
want a back rub, but your would-be masseuse starts pounding on the top of your head like a woodpecker? Feel good? I think not. Dogs are just like us in this—their enjoyment of touch depends on
when
it’s offered,
how
it is done, and
where
on the body it is directed. I’ll talk about context first, because it’s the variable most often ignored.

Do you want a massage right now? I don’t; I’m busy writing this book. And I don’t want one when I’m training my dogs, giving a speech, or trying to figure out why my computer has just done one of the inexplicable and irritating things it always does when I’m in a
hurry. But I’d love one later, when the computer’s turned off and the chores are done and I’m settled in for the night. Like us, dogs enjoy petting during quiet times, when the pack is settled in, cozied up in the living room or bedroom, the outside world shut away for awhile. They enjoy petting least when they’re in high-arousal play mode. Watch a dog who’s been called away from an exuberant play session and is “rewarded” with a pat on the head: most dogs turn their heads and move away. I swear, I can practically hear them saying “Awww … Mommmmmmm.” Neither do most dogs enjoy being petted while greeting other dogs, while eating their dinners, or while otherwise engaged in something that requires concentration. Here’s yet another example of how being anthropomorphic at the right times would help our relationship with dogs, rather than hinder it.

Just like people, dogs vary tremendously when it comes to
who
they want to touch them. Some dogs are veritable streetwalkers, happy to get cuddly with anything that has hands, while others are uncomfortable having strangers touch them at all, at least before the second date. We often expect dogs to tolerate touching from anyone, just as we expect children to, but that doesn’t mean they like it. They’re just usually not in a position to do much about it.

Dogs are also like people in terms of
where
they like to be touched. Their favorite places may vary from ours—I’ve yet to see a human go goofy-eyed and thump their leg when you rub them above their tail bone—but humans don’t enjoy touch equally in every part of their bodies any more than dogs do. As I write this, part of me says: “Everyone knows this, why use up valuable space talking about it?” And then I think of how often I see people slap their dogs on top of the head, or hug the dog’s chest until his eyes begin to bulge. In general, dogs enjoy touch most on the sides of their heads, under their ears and chins, on their chests and bellies, and at the base of their tails. Although some dogs will turn inside out for any touch at all, most don’t like their paws touched and aren’t fond of you messing around with their hind legs or genitals. They dislike slappy pats on the top of their head. (Wolf researchers tell me they use head pats to get pushy wolves to leave them alone.) Of course, every dog is different, just like people. Some of us are picky about where we want to be touched; others are happy to make contact with another warm body any way they can.

How
you pet your dog also makes a big difference, and individual preferences are again just as important in dogs as they are in people. In general, most of us enjoy gentle but firm strokes and rubs. I wish we’d talk more about “rubbing, stroking, or massaging” dogs instead of “petting” them, “petting” being a word close enough to “patting” to cause no end of trouble. Pats, especially rapidly repeated ones on top of the head, tend to put dogs off. (Remember this when your Border Collie drops the ball in your lap for the 561st time. You might as well use this to your advantage!)

This should not be a big shock to us. How much would you like it if some stranger walked up and patted you on the top of your head? In spite of that, people do it to dogs all the time, in yet another example of our lack of ability to be anthropomorphic when it makes sense to be. When I was taping the Animal Planet show
Petline
, a veterinarian turned sales rep asked to borrow Cool Hand Luke for a demonstration on dental care. Luke and I had just finished a segment on how much dogs dislike pats on top of the head, directing the audience’s attention to Luke’s look of disgust when we did it to him. Sure enough, after repeatedly jerking Luke’s mouth open as if cleaning clams, the woman said “Thank you, Luke,” and slapped him on the top of the head with three short, bouncy pats. We had to stop taping, because the camera crew was laughing so hard they couldn’t work.