Dogma

End of the Rope

I read a story the other day about a dog named Rocky, who’d been chained out in his yard in Enumclaw, Washington for fourteen years.  His world consisted of a forty foot-wide circle of mud and dung, with a plastic dog house and a bucket of water.  All year- rain, shine, snow, you name it.  For years, neighbors complained, to no avail.  Apparently the law states that, as long as a dog has shelter and water, nothing can be done.

Luckily, authorities eventually got the owner to surrender him; Rocky got to live out the remainder of his short life in comfort, though I’m guessing that he probably spent the rest of his days trying to figure out just what “comfort” really meant.

There are times when tethering a dog can be a legitimate training technique, particularly indoors, to get it to calm down, focus, and learn to observe without thinking it has to participate in every event.  It allows an untrained dog to settle and feel part of the goings on, without being a burden to others.  Fear-aggressive pets tethered to a doorknob (with someone present) can also benefit from seeing that other dogs or people relaxing close by are in fact of no danger to them.

Observed outdoor tethering can accomplish the same thing, provided it is used on a temporary basis, for the reasons stated above.  But it should only be used to further some training objective, and never as a permanent “containment” solution. 

Unfortunately, many people still resort to tethering dogs outdoors, often for years at a time, for various reasons, all of them misguided.  Some owners do not have their yards properly fenced, and reason that a twenty foot chain is cheaper than a new enclosure.  Or, the fence available simply is not secure enough to hold the dog. 

The majority of those who tether feel that the dog, for whatever reason, does not belong inside for much of the day, or at all in some cases.  The owner might be gone too many hours of the day for the dog to be left inside without eliminating.  Perhaps the dog has never been properly trained, and would otherwise be destructive indoors.  The dog could have other behavioral issues that make indoor housing problematic.  Or, it’s just not hygienic enough to be kept inside.

Physically, chaining can be extremely damaging to a dog, who can get tangled up, resulting in damaged limbs.  Or, a young dog chained up will invariably outgrow the collar (often also a chain), which digs into the neck, often strangling the pet.  The dog can also hang itself in an attempt to jump a fence.

From a behavioral standpoint, chaining a dog is one of most efficient ways to screw it up.  It limits a dog’s territory to a finite circle, which short-circuits a dog’s “fight-or-flight” instinct.  If a dog feels its mobility limited in any way, it can become anxious, resulting in hostility.  It’s why dog-on-dog aggression is so much more prevalent on-leash than off-leash. 

The constant tug of the chain acts as an annoying irritant, again leading to aggression.  One of the ways protection trainers encourage dogs to actually “fire up” on a perpetrator is to restrain the dog on leash, near the point of contact, then tug it back while using verbal cues to encourage a defensive, contentious mindset in the dog’s head.  A dog chained in a backyard, upon seeing someone walking by, will go to the end of its chain, feel the irritating yank, and associate it with the appearance of the person on the periphery.  Gradually, the dog is self-conditioned to believe that all strangers cause the annoying “correction,” and are therefore bad.

Chaining a dog also encourages a neurotic mindset.  Look at most yards containing a chained dog and you’ll find a circled path worn deep down into the dirt or grass, suggesting that the dog spends much of its time pacing the perimeter, patrolling, worrying, and searching for stimuli.  It’s a classic recipe for OCD.  So many chained dogs whom I have trained have had this neurotic inability to sit still and focus; it’s deplorable, and preventable.

Part of the problem is plain ignorance.  Someone who wants a dog, but has neither the time nor the ability to train, defaults to chaining.  Or, someone in the home deplores the hair, the smell, or the chaos inherent to an untrained dog.  And so it ends up outside, relegated to being less of a family pet, and more of a security alarm.  The irony is that, in order to properly protect a home, a dog needs to be inside the home, and not outside on a chain.

Solutions?  First, don’t get a dog unless you have the time and the space to properly care for it.  Gone ten hours a day?  Get a cat.  Next, housetrain your dog properly, so that it doesn’t need to be sequestered in a yard all day.  Crate train, and set a consistent routine.  Then, train the heck out of your dog, to create confidence, and focus.  Socialize as much as possible, and make the yard a fun place to hang out or play.  And, get your dog into the home as much as possible, to create a sense of belonging, to utilize the dog as an effective intruder alert, and to remove the pet from an outdoor, restricted environment where anyone seen is thought of as a potential threat.

The Purposeful Mutt

My friend Bob walks dogs in the University District of Seattle.  He’s a rangy Canuck with a mad scientist look, Apache cheekbones, windblown, wiry hair, and a pair of fogged Ben Franklin reading glasses parked far too low on his nose to function as anything but shoelace checkers.  He cruised by the coffee shop the other day with a “doodle,” or more properly a Labradoodle- a hybrid we once referred to as mutt, mongrel, or mixed breed. 

“This is Gloria,” he said, professorial in nature despite the week-old growth filtering onto his cheeks and chin.

“Poodle mix?” I asked, the dog bouncing around, happily licking at Bob’s other charge, an overweight Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever aptly named Moose.

“Labradoodle,” he corrected.  “Her owners are quite adamant about that.”

“I stand corrected.”

“Comes from the best Australian stock, mind you,” he said mockingly.

“They really know their doodles down under.”

He sighed and brushed wet hair from his face.  “I suppose.  Moose here doesn’t seem to care much for her, though.”

“A result of his more patrician pedigree, no doubt.”

“Perhaps,” said Bob, restoring Gloria’s heel position and heading off in the rain.  “Or maybe he just doesn’t like her,” he added, moving Moose over to his right side to spare him from another tongue lashing.

“See you, Bob.”

The dogs I’ve owned have all been mutts.  Road warriors, strays, quasi-feral survivors, reservation babies.  Every time I’m due for a new dog I always imagine getting a Bullmastiff or GSD or Chocolate Lab, or something else “pure,” something predictable and sure.  But every time, I get suckered in, I weaken- I save an errant Chow/Golden or a Pit/shepherd or Cairn/Schnauzer, or a Rottweiler/GSD (thank goodness for that one, right Lou?).  Then they live for sixteen years, suffer few medical issues, and, by and large, behave admirably.  One of those particular mutts happened to also become one of the greatest dogs of our time, but that’s another story.

Point is, I get mutts.  I dig their madcap looks, their behavioral blending and hidden genomes, their unpredictability and vigor.  I admire their unsavory histories, colorful beginnings, and unlikely survival stories.  Mutts for me define the spirit of the dog; they have adapted, and survived.

But what if we force the issue?  Rather than a Poodle and a Lab meeting secretly in the park for some taboo nuptials, what if we purposefully mate them, for the direct intention of creating a litter of mixed breed puppies, in hopes that they will possess the positive attributes of both parents, and few of the negatives?  A Lab with a non-shedding coat?  A Poodle with an unconquerable desire to fetch a ball? 

“Hybrid” is a term used to describe one of these designer mutts- a deliberate attempt to engineer a new type of dog who benefits from the good traits of the parent breeds, while having the potentially bad traits muted.  At least that’s the intent.  One of the first of these I recall seeing was the “Puggle,” or Pug/Beagle.  The Pug, a cool little breed with breathing, orthopedic and eye issues, and a habit of snoring and farting, was mixed with a Beagle, a delightful little hound with a penchant for baying at the most inopportune times, and for following its nose instead of its owner.  Puggle puppies would supposedly be quieter, less flatulent, and more orthopedically sound, and have less of a desire to follow whatever scent happened to waft by. 

In practice, it didn’t often turn out that way.  Dog breeding, especially for neophytes, isn’t simple math; sometimes the hybridized puppies would have all the desirable qualities, but at other times, all of the undesirables.  A farty, barky, snoring dog with bad knees?  No thanks.  Basically, any first generation breeding between purebred dogs is never that predictable- just like mutts since the dawn of time.

Experienced breeders of any species of animal know that, to create the best possible results, one must first choose parents who best reflect the traits one wants in the offspring.  And so, if one is hoping for a less barky Beagle, the best strategy is not to breed a Beagle to a Pug (or Shiba, or Basenji for that matter), but to find the quietest Beagle parents possible and then breed them.  But the hybrid movement’s aim, in my opinion, is focused more on creating a novel aesthetic-something cute and marketable.  The Puggle surely is that.

Puggle breeders, sure they are onto something, keep fine-tuning, in hopes of creating that perfect mix of traits.  But, as they keep doing so, do they not eventually arrive at some new “breed,” and therefore defeat the very purpose of the hybrid, namely an improved healthful vigor, unlike the “purebreds” they hope to compete with?  In homing in on specific traits, the hybrid breeder narrows down the gene pool, and arrives at something contradictory to their most impressive selling point.

It’s been done before.  The most successful “hybrid” of all time?  In my opinion, it’s the German Shepherd Dog.  Though plenty of shepherd-like dogs existed in Germany back in the late 19^th Century, it wasn’t until 1899 that Captain Max von Stephanitz and a few others figured out how to create the perfect mix of existing herding and farm dogs, coming up with the super dog we now know.  Capable of not only herding, guarding and tracking with the best of them,  The GSD can make a great family dog, and has, in my opinion, a near simian capacity for learning.  In all, despite some structural problems, a winning attempt at creating a “designer” dog.

Other breeds such as the Bullmastiff, American Staffordshire Terrier, English Bulldog, and Miniature Pinscher, to name a few, have all been recently created to serve specific needs, with varied success, in my opinion.  Really, all breeds were at some point manufactured from existing breed-types, to attain some specific appearance and function. 

The point I make is that the above dogs are now considered “purebred,” and as such no longer carry the stigma (or the perceived advantages) of being a hybrid.  They can and do suffer from inherent medical or behavioral issues, caused by a finite gene pool, in comparison to true mixed breeds.  And so, the main selling point of hybridization today, namely better health through genetic variation, ebbs.  The ultimate goal of a Labradoodle or Puggle breeder then- some ideal standardization of desirable traits- defeats the very purpose of the exercise.

So then, does the “purposeful” mutt lose it’s appeal?  Is chance a key ingredient in the creation of a truly special mongrel?  My own opinion is a cautionary yes, with some caveats.  A puppy produced by two behaviorally unsound dogs will have little chance of becoming an outstanding pet.  Likewise, two “high maintenance” breeds who just happen to mate have less of a chance to produce good offspring.  I won’t mention any particular breeds for fear of literary crucifixion- but you know which I mean.  Mixing a breed plagued by inherent structural issues with a breed known for being somewhat standoffish- well, it’s not going to work out well too often.

That said, I do have my mix prejudices.  I do not think I have ever met a Shepherd/Rottweiler I did not like.  Lab/Rott mixes, Lab/Shepherds, Newfoundland/Goldens, Cairn/Corgis- all interesting and memorable mixes.  I suppose I think that any dog with a bit of GSD or Lab throw into the pot has got to be a decent dog, but hey, that’s my own breed bigotry talking.

The dog’s form and function has been manipulated by us for thousands of years, mostly for added utility, but recently for aesthetics, and even retail considerations.  I guess my desire is this: How about we take a holiday from mucking around with their genetics, and simply enjoy whatever wonderful slip-ups happen by?

In the Beginning

At my age, time moves like a carsick dog.  Swoop and stagger, start and stop, surge like a swollen river.  It’s as if my time metric has magically switched over to dog years.

It seems as if I wrote my last Christmas blog just a moment ago.  This year, I didn’t want to cover the same well-meaning but predictable caveats about why not to get that Christmas puppy- impulse buys are just that; pet shops that sell puppies suck; kids will love the pup for three days and then you’re stuck scooping poop- yada, yada.  Nah- I wanted to write something else. 

I wish I knew more about dogs from the past.  For instance, did Jesus have a dog, and if so, what kind of dog was it?  A pharaoh hound?  A shepherd?  And what about dogs in the Bible?  I know it talks about dogs metaphorically returning to their own vomit and dogs eating sinful corpses and such, but does it talk about dogs saving lives or herding flocks or fetching pine cones in paradise?

Why does Santa use reindeer, and not huskies? 

Why are there hounds from hell, but no cats?  I mean come on, isn’t it Sylvester who’s been cozying up to Lucifer for all these millennia? 

News flash: there are no dogs in hell.  And anyway, if religious standards require a soul to enter heaven, and Church officials say dogs have no souls, doesn’t it then follow that there cannot be, as per Church dogma, dogs in hell?

But if there is such a thing as a soul, do any of you doubt that dogs have them?  And if so, does that mean that dogs might be in fact eligible for entry into the fires of Hades?  Nah- they are simply not capable of that intensity of sin.  Owners, maybe, but not dogs.

I myself would not want to inhabit an afterlife devoid of dogs.  Rats maybe- roaches, mosquitoes, fleas, ticks, child molesters, suicide bombers, serial killers, telemarketers, bullies, litterbugs, reality television anti heroes- but dogs?  Okay, I guess there have been a few knucklehead mutts who’d be hard pressed to sneak by St. Peter at the gate (hello Rico), but on the whole, come on. 

I myself am convinced that there’s an entire missing gospel devoted to the abiding, unshakable devotion of the dog.  I mean, isn’t that what faith is all about?  What priest, minister, rabbi, imam, or shaman wouldn’t love to have his or her followers sport such dedication, honesty, and fidelity?  Hey, maybe that’s what I am- maybe I’m not a pet behaviorist, but a dog priest, a shepherd’s shepherd, the pied piper of curs.  Ah- probably not.  And besides, to properly manage a flock, some of them have to stray from the straight and narrow every so often.  Dogs just don’t sin well, so I’m not sure they’d even need my ministerial services.

I could write that gospel- a Genesis for dogs and humans, a creation story explaining the beginnings of our contract, our deal, our quid pro quo- that moment when one ballsy wolf said to herself (and I’m pretty sure it was a female) “okay, enough’s enough, there’s nothing to eat, I need to feed the pups, and these strange, hairless bipeds have plenty of leftovers just lying around, so cover me, I’m going in.” 

And so it was in the beginning, that man and dog would look into each other’s souls and see themselves, and it was good.  Something like that.  The beginning of the world’s most legendary alliance.

That’s what I think of at this time of year- real friends and family, the kind who’ll take a bullet or a bite for you, the kind who'll stick with you no matter what, no matter if you’re rich or poor or gay or straight or liberal or conservative, no matter if you have a bad day or a good day, or if you’re messy or germaphobic or black or white or famous or infamous or nervous or easygoing or fallen or risen, no matter what, there they are, no questions asked, like a dog, like an unshakeable faith, like a loving god.  The inexorable march of time can’t make a dent it that. 

  

Just Do Your Best

A friend of mine adopted a little poodle mix about six months ago.  Cute as a cartoon lamb, she scoots around like a coffeed jackrabbit, flips her toys high up in the air, catches them, does it over and over again.  She shoots whiskered little grins at you, then pokes her head through the front curtains to give someone walking by a piece of her mind.  Eventually she wears herself out and pants like an asthmatic chain smoker, pink tongue curled up to the ribbed roof of her mouth.  Then she curls up in a warm corner for a nice, three hour nap.  She's a fine little dog.

Her small doggy door provides easy access to an expansive, secure back yard whenever she needs a break.  She doesn't eat a lot, doesn't really shed, and hasn't ever been destructive in the home, as far as I know.  Despite a potential orthopedic issue and a tight, wiry coat that tends to snag burrs, all in all, an easy pet to care for. 

Her owner is a hard working, dedicated educator, who also coordinates and hosts a multitude of community art and literature events each month.  Busy as a Manhattan traffic cop, her days and nights get scheduled with NASA-like precision.  To add to her responsibilities, she has a special needs child, making leisure time a fiction at best.  Needless to say, she doesn't get to spend as much time with her dog as she'd like, and laments that the pet is suffering from loneliness and lack of stimulation. 

It's understandable.  Dogs need activity and social interaction to feel fulfilled.  In my years as a pet behaviorist, I've learned that most dog problems are caused by boredom, and lack of routine and structure.  Early on, this poodle's owner began to feel guilty, and has even considered giving the sweet character up to someone with more time.

Many trainers would tell her to do just that, for the sake of the dog.  Years ago, I probably would have agreed with them.  And, if it weren't for the doggy door arrangement allowing the dog to get outside, I still might advise her to at least find someone to come in during the day to let the pooch out.

But not anymore.  In many of these cases, I've relaxed my ideology some, and realize now that, in the scheme of things, this dog got lucky, got a second chance at life with a good-hearted owner.  What she has now in this nice home is far better than languishing at the shelter, her future uncertain.  Her owner works hard and does her best, loves the dog, grooms her, sees to her needs, appreciates her.  The doggy door setup allows the pet to get out into the secure yard whenever necessary, preventing accidents and the ensuing frustrations.  And when her owner is home, the dog gets attention.

We do what we can with the cards dealt us.  Some of us have to work two jobs, put our kids in daycare, shuttle them around to relatives or friends.  We don't spend enough time together, but try to make the most of the time we have.  It's the same with our dogs; we know we should give them more attention, exercise and love, but life has a habit of getting in the way. 

It doesn't mean we don't love them, or care for them.  As long as we aren't abusive or denying them what they need, then maybe they can adapt to our limitations, our constraints, our duties.  After all, next to us, they are the world's most adaptable species.

Of course, there is a fine line.  Dog alone for ten hours?  Too long, you're asking for trouble.  Dog not getting the opportunity to go outside?  Again, not fair.  Dog tied up or crated all day?  That's abusive.

But this dog is loved.  And, she clearly loves her owner.  If returned to a shelter, I'd wager few people would be willing to adopt an adult dog with possible orthopedic problems down the road.  No; I'm no longer all that doctrinaire about these things- life's just too short for that. 

We do the best we can do, and if our hearts are in the right place, it's okay.  If you worry about being away too long, you can always try to enlist the help of a neighbor or friend.  On weekends, make it up to your dog by going for walks, trips to the park, or to a friend's house for a play date with another dog.  Play, train, and love, whenever you can.  As long as your dog's needs are being met, don't torture yourself over not being the ideal owner. 

Life is tough sometimes.  We don't always get what we want, when we want it.  It doesn't mean we should just give up on those who love us, or think that they don't understand what we are going through.  As do your family and friends, your dog will understand, because that's what they do best.

Ghost Dogs

In my recent book, Last Dog On The Hill, I discuss how growing up in a NY apartment afforded me no chance to own a dog, and how the only pet we did own back then was a parakeet named Chipper, a bitter bird who, blessed with super-avian powers, would bend apart the bars of his jail cage and escape to strafe and soil our heads while screaming primordial discontents. He wasn't much fun.

Like every other red-blooded kid, I'd wanted a dog. More than other kids, maybe. But back then, I had to settle for Lassie, Old Yeller, Rin Tin Tin- you know, media stand-ins for tenement-bound wannabes.

That doesn't mean I never got to experience flesh-and-blood dogs in my early days. I did. I lived vicariously through the dogs of friends, merchants, neighbors- dogs who today I call my "ghost dogs." Only memories now, but so important. They got my "dog on" for me.
Jumbo

Jumbo was a Great Dane/Boxer mix owned by my grandmother in her apartment on Webster Avenue in the Bronx, in the early Sixties. How she got to have that behemoth in her tiny third floor walk-up, I'll never know. A short, old-school Italian widow who'd raised eight kids, (including three WWII vets, one a decorated hero with Patton's Third Army, and another killed in the Pacific theatre by, of all things, a tiger in the jungles of Bangladesh), my grandma was an immutable force, an example of one who endures at all costs. And so she got Jumbo, to amuse her, and to protect against those who might take advantage of an old yet still wily woman.

Fawn-colored Jumbo had a lean Boxer head screwed onto a thick, Danish body. At about ninety pounds, he was no Harlequin, but had density of bone, and a ripped physique to be proud of. And, he outright loved me.

He also had little if any training, so when he'd see me once each week, he'd gallop over and pin my thirty-eight pound, six year-old body beneath the Formica table in the kitchen- just bowl me over, plant his massive front paws onto my shoulders and slobber me up until I'd cry hysterically with joy, fear, awe- I'm still not sure. It was enjoyable, I suppose, in the same way that being tickled into incontinence is enjoyable.

My dad would eventually step in and drag the brute off of me, lock him up in the bedroom, and wipe my face off with a dish rag while Jumbo would head butt the old wooden door, whining out his affections like a four-pound teacup poodle. And so, I remember Jumbo, whose Herculean body finally gave out on him there on Webster Avenue.
Dino

Ah Dino, the sweetest gas station sentinel I ever knew. Late Sixties- my dad worked a weekend job across the street at the Sinclair gas station, owned by his friend Louie Argenta, a red-haired, freckle-faced Italian and ex paratrooper who'd taken shrapnel during the war, and would every few years cough up a piece of it, just spit it right out and laugh as the jagged, bloody shard skipped across his desk, mechanics and friends staring silently as lung blood dripped from Louie's grinning lips.

Dino was the gas station's mascot and protector, a thick-bodied, low-riding German Shepherd, coal black with strokes of rust on his chest, face and legs. He lived and died there at the station.

Dino looked like what a German Shepherd might have looked like five thousand years ago, if the breed had existed then, like a hulking dire wolf with a coarse coat greased up from years of gas station living, as if Louie brushed Brylcreem into it every morning. With fangs long as crayons, and an old-school, squared-off conformation, Dino came off like a Russian power lifter, a sweetheart who could tear a burglar's throat out then smile at whoever opened up at six in the morning.

My mom would send me across the street to the station to call my dad up for dinner. I'd walk over quietly for a chance to eavesdrop, to hear men talking frankly, to catch my dad spouting off like one of the guys. Then I'd skip into the motor oil-scented office to announce dinner.

Often, I would I'd cross over early and pass through the side gate where Dino lived, the powerhouse who could have killed me with a snap of his jaws. I had no fear of him at all, I just thought he was my friend.

I'd bring him something- a swipe of meatball, a tear of provolone- anything to make him happy. He'd see me coming and that thick, black, barely feathered tail would start rowing the air, and when I walked in he'd sit and wait for his indulgence, his shepherd eyes human, almost penitent. He never jumped up on me, ever; maybe Louie had taught him not to, maybe not.

I'd walk around the station yard looking at Chevys up on blocks or at rusty oil pans piled in the corner, or spent car batteries, and Dino would walk right beside me, as if I were a blind boy who needed help. Then my dad would see me and he'd smile and pet Dino and then we'd go up to eat.

Then Armstrong and Aldrin stepped onto the face of the moon and stole my attentions, filling me with pride and wonder and distracting me from the lonely death of a dog in a gas station who had, out of boredom, chewed on a car battery in the night, alone.
Togo

My mother's parents went from Mussolini to Eisenhower in thirty years. When you sat with them you could sense it, the quiet pride, the sense of achievement and good fortune. Even as a kid I remember how it made me feel proud. Then in 1956, after saving for twenty-five years, they moved from a tenement in lower Manhattan to a brick duplex in College Point, Queens, a good, safe neighborhood. My grandfather finally got the yard he'd wanted, to grow figs and tomatoes and basil and whatever else would help him remember being a kid in Basilicata.

Next door lived my friend Anthony Galluccio, a few years older, a guitar player, a good guy. He had Togo, a Siberian Husky named after the great Japanese admiral who'd destroyed the Russian navy in 1905, during the Russo-Japanese war. It was an appropriate name for the big Husky, a stoic, reserved fellow with cerulean blue eyes and a lordly manner.

Particular about whom he called friend, Togo was the first dog to ever growl at me, and one of the few dogs I've loved who considered me immature, perhaps even insolent. It was an education in humility for a dogless, dog loving boy.

The homes on that street had second-story terraces overhanging the garages. Closed in by wrought iron fencing and accessible by a flight of concrete steps, it is where Togo spent several hours of his day, at least in good weather. He had a plush dog house up there, food and water, and shade if he needed it.

I'd spent two summers with my grandparents there in Queens, after my mother passed in 1971. Anthony and other boys in the neighborhood were my pals; we'd play handball down at the schoolyard, walk over to Pizza D'Amore on College Point Boulevard, or maybe ride the bus into Flushing, just to walk around. But my favorite thing to do was hang out with Togo on his terrace, listen to a Mets game on the radio, chew bubble gum and watch the cars and people pass by.

At first he resented me invading his world. The king of his terrace, if I got too chummy he'd let me know with a growl, or a quivering lip. Sometimes the lip lifted high, sometimes low, sometimes just a tremor only I could see. After a while, I think it almost became a game with him- a serious game, but a performance nonetheless, one he'd usually end with a lick or a yodel.

Once Anthony or his mom began to let me feed him or play ball with him in the yard, he warmed up and let me into his discerning heart. He knew me as his peculiar little friend, nearly quiet as himself, nearly as discerning.

Into my teens, I lost my intimacy with him. Seeing him only once each week and interested in other things, I'd stop by to say hello, and he'd stare me down and take a treat or two, then retire to his dog house, the novelty of the quiet little boy worn off for him.

When he reached seven or eight, he developed a terrible case of irritable bowl syndrome, requiring a radical diet change, and a regimen of medications he was just not fond of. He became sick and dour, and I recall thinking that I would have, too, if I'd had to suffer through what he did.

Togo passed in his eighth year. He'd been a discriminating dog, like a mentoring dragon to me. Anthony left Togo's dog house up on the terrace for a good while, and that year I remember going up and sitting on it, watching traffic fly down 14th Avenue, and listening to the Mets get slaughtered by the Phillies.
Micky

Micky was a spaniel mix I'd met in college in 1974, on the east end of Long Island. A black-and-tan 40-pounder owned by my friend Mike, Micky would be let out in the morning, and let back in at night. In between, he pretty much did whatever he wanted.

One of the smartest dogs I've ever known, Micky and I met one day in a huge, sandy college parking lot. I saw him from two hundreds yards off, his silky black spaniel ears bouncing up and down as he trotted toward me. Not rushed, but certainly not ambling. Then he slowed, walked right up, bit me on the ankle, and casually walked away.

That's how Micky introduced himself to all of Mike's male friends. He'd nip you, smile, then walk off. No grudges afterwards, not even a hint of apprehension or regret; he just felt that, to properly introduce himself, he needed to break some skin.

Micky was the official campus dog. No one even thought of him as a dog, really- he was more like Mike's canine avatar. He'd wait outside of a building for Mike to come out, or take off to visit someone on the other side of campus- he did whatever he wanted to do. Today I shudder at giving a dog that level of independence, but back then, with the rural, contained setting, the fact that everyone knew and loved him, and his incredible street smarts- well, it just seemed normal.

More than any other dog except my own beloved Lou- the subject of my memoir Last Dog On The Hill- Micky taught me how unbelievably independent, smart and capable certain dogs can become, if given the right environment and owner. He often had other dogs follow him around, dogs twice his twice, half his size- it didn't matter. Somehow they knew he'd lead them to something good, something doggish. We don't get to see this much anymore except on farms, or in deeply rural environs. I know we need to watch out for our dogs, but, well- it's just too bad we can't have smartass guys like Micky roaming around anymore.

When Mike went off to veterinary school in Manila, we all sort of lost touch with Micky. Maybe Mike's family in Boston took him- I don't know. I wish he would have offered Micky to me- I would have taken him in a second.
Meat Bag Betty

I bought Betty from a guy selling puppies out of the back of his rusted Fairlane station wagon back in 1978, while I was working the graveyard shift at a Crown gas station in Southampton, Long Island. The guy could barely stand up; he looked like a pin cushion and probably would have eaten Betty in a day or two, so I gave him five bucks and took the little terrier mix, kept her for a month, fed her way too much and got her fat, then found a college student willing to take her home to a nice spread near Oyster Bay, Long Island. I never saw her again but I'm sure she'd been thankful for me not letting that junkie eat her.

It wouldn't be until 1989, when I was thirty-three, that I'd officially get my first dog, a six month-old feral Rottweiler mix rescued off of a marijuana grow in Mendocino. He would be my first, and amazingly my best dog- and perhaps the greatest dog of modern times. To learn his story, you'll need to read the book.

But Lou and I owe a debt of gratitude, not only to Lassie and Old Yeller and Rin Tin Tin, but to those real dogs who'd flickered in and out of my life, dogs who'd touched me, helped me, loved me, kept me wanting. My ghost dogs, gone but not forgotten.

What's a Dog For?

I just finished work on a new co-authored book project, dealing with the dog rescue efforts of a man who's been fighting for the rights of dogs abroad, in "developing" nations.  In the trenches for years, he's done his best to rescue, relocate, feed, heal and protect abused dogs, in places where the animal rights traditions we take for granted still struggle to be born.  On many occasions, he has had his life threatened, by unsavory locals hell bent on keeping the same dysfunctional status quo.  This guy is like the James Bond of dog rescuers, and it's been my pleasure to help him get a book together.  The book took six months to write, and honestly, I think it nearly killed me emotionally.

Without delving into the actual content of the book (I'll want you to buy it for that), it explores the relationships people in other countries have with dogs, and how these relationships differ from our own.  And, let me tell you; never believe for a moment that love for dogs is a universal, because it is not, not at all.  If anything, what we feel in our hearts for canines is not the worldwide standard, but rather a subjective exception.  What I want to talk about here is why that is, and what if anything we might do about it.

What is a pet, really?  For us, perhaps, a pet is a companion animal, there to accept and reflect love and camaraderie, and to provide us with an boundless supply of devotion and joy.  Maybe that's it, but, honestly, I'm not sure anymore just who dogs are to us.  I still like to think of dogs not as just buddies or petting posts, but as partners, serving some useful purpose, as did the dogs of old.  I still feel that they need jobs to feel right about themselves, and to win the respect of the world.  Even tiny toy poodles named Sylvie or Buttercup, perched proudly atop their owner's laps, or ancient cattle dogs named Rex or Mike, asleep on sofas, want to earn their keep, I think.  But that's just me, and I digress.

How ever we choose to define "pet," I have come to believe that the term owes its existence, at least in part to the ongoing socio-economic conditions of a society, and to the resulting cultural adaptations adopted over time.  In other words, pet ownership is a luxury- a phenomenon of surplus.  Wherever good economic times produce extra money and spare time, the "extravagance" of pet ownership can take place.  But when times are tough for a very long time, the last thing people struggling to feed their kids are thinking of is what breed of dog to get.  The line between pet and nuisance, or even pet and food- blurs.

I have seen it myself in impoverished areas; invariably, the dogs there still might serve some basic utilitarian purpose, such as guarding, herding, or ratting.  But in some places, even that ceases to be useful; a dog becomes akin to vermin, or, in certain places, lunch.  Unneutered strays wander about, perpetually cautious, always hungry, never trusting. 

In Southern Italy I was once stalked by a glassy-eyed, ribby shepherd/Samoyed mix, half-crazed with hunger, convinced I was either lunch, or his assassin.  In Tijuana, I watched kids with sticks bat mangy, terrified Chihuahua mixes down alleyways, as if playing street hockey.  In parts of Asia, Saint Bernards are raised for food.  In Puerto Rico, hotel owners hire men to poison beach dogs with bowls of anti-freeze, to clear the strays out and make it cleaner for the tourists.  Barbaric to us, routine in much of the world.

Perhaps other cultures simply do not need pets the way we do, and therefore have no engrained love for them.   This begs the question: why do we crave a dog's attentions?  Are we by nature a lonely people?  Do we not get the attentions we crave from our own species?  Are these other, less dog-friendly cultures simply better socialized and family-oriented, and therefore less likely to need a separate, simpler-minded species to be there for us at our beck and call, as some sort of affection surrogate? 

I don't think that's it.  But, as you can see, pondering an answer to this query, in my opinion, cannot avoid delving into questions of a cultural nature.  For whatever reasons, some societies simply do not see dogs the way we do.  But even if this is the case, must it then follow that dogs in less friendly environs must suffer abuse, torture, starvation, and ignominious death?  Why the added sadism?

Our culture tends to despise rats, not only for their historic role in spreading the bubonic plague, but in the way their infestations often herald human disease, poverty, famine, corruption and ill health.  Where rats go, so goes the neighborhood, I guess.  But even the lowly rat seems to get more respect from us that do dogs in certain parts of the world.  When we kill them, we usually try to do it in as methodical and humane a manner possible.  Many of us even keep them as pets.  But the dog- oh, could I tell you stories from the new book- the dog gets treated so very badly in some places, and it just confounds me.  Is there more to it that I'm just not getting?

I know; even in this country, dogs get treated badly.  Dog fighting still goes on.  But do you personally know anyone who fights dogs?  Which elements in our society participate in dog fighting?  Usually the lowest of the low (with the possible exception of certain millionaire sports figures we all know).  Usually it's ex-convicts, gang bangers, drug dealers, or other misanthropes, and not the mainstream culture.  But in other countries, I am sorry to say, dog abuse is mainstream.  Like roaches, they get hacked, poisoned, burned, run over, hung.  And then their executioners go home and kiss their kids goodnight.

How the dog, humanity's faithful working partner for tens of thousands of years, could become so unimportant to so many billions of people in the world, I just cannot fathom.  I know it is true with our friend the cat, too, and was even more so back in the Middle Ages, when they, thought to be associated with the devil and witchcraft, were slaughtered by the millions (ironically contributing to the rise in the rat population, the vector for the plague-carrying flea). 

But religion or superstition seems to play no role in the sad lot of dogs overseas.  Perhaps it is a simple desensitization of entire cultures to the character and legacy of the canine, who, once vital to our survival, now serves little everyday purpose worldwide, save as companions.  Perhaps much of the world, seeing little need for them as workers, have lost that bond humans once took for granted.  When dogs ceased to be vital to our own safety and economy, we adapted them to our need for simple companionship.  This adaptation, perhaps, is slow to happen abroad.  Maybe that's it?

Even after co-authoring the aforementioned book, I can't tell you what the answer is.  I just know that, if you are a dog in Asia or the Caribbean or Africa or Mexico or South America, or a hundred other places, then the odds of you living the good life, of finding a loving family and making it to a ripe old age, of getting your photo in Modern Dog Magazine- well, those odds are pretty damn thin.  And I'd like to know why.

In Defense of the Big, Bad Wolf

If dogs were wolves, our lives would get very interesting.  Homes would be torn to shreds.  No one would ever visit.  Domestic tabbies would disappear from earth, and doggy daycares would have to hire Navy Seals to watch the little darlings.  Thankfully, though, our dogs are not wolves.

No one with any sense thinks domestic dogs act like wolves.  Canis lupus comes into estrus once per year, practices monogamy (what a concept), loathes socializing with strangers, can eat far larger meals, possesses superior strength, endurance and intellect, and works seamlessly with others to defeat prey ten times its size.  Try getting a Pomeranian to do that.  A Jack Russell, maybe... but I digress.

But here's the rub.  Over the last decade or so, books, articles, papers, websites, academicians and self-proclaimed dog experts have inundated us with the ever-growing conviction that dogs are seemingly as detached from wolves and wolf behavior as we are from the slimy slugs that crawled out of the ocean to eventually morph into contestants on Survivor.  They would like us to think that eight healthy dogs placed into a fenced yard will interact with the same undirected entropy as might a box of hamsters. Well, that's balderdash.  There- I managed to get balderdash into the conversation.  A underused word that I recommend you use more in everyday conversation.

At the heart of this imagined dog/wolf disconnect lies the abiding, emotional, and often overzealous revulsion for the concept of the dominance hierarchy among domestic canines.  Incorrectly interpreted by some as a rather martial, perhaps even chauvinistic theory, its disfavor among today's new-age dog connoisseurs is understandable, I suppose. Indeed, old-school dog training techniques were simply too butch, and not all that effective.  But the concepts of hierarchy and leadership in general are, in my opinion, not outdated or mannish at all; in fact, they couldn't be more compassionate, loving, or accurate, from a dog's perspective.

Those who share this distaste for the idea of hierarchy even go so far as to claim that the gray wolf itself does not in truth abide by any form of a pecking order at all, but instead operates under a simple familial construct- Mommy and Daddy ruling the kiddies, the cousins, the aunts and uncles, etc.  That it is purely a function of family.  Perhaps, but beyond the fact that this family construct is, in and of itself, a type of  "dominance" hierarchy, there is too much empirical information available regarding outside, unrelated wolves taken in by wolf packs, for anyone to claim that wolf packs do not accept strangers in, then put them in their respective places.  See the paper "The Acceptance of a New Breeding Male Into a Wild Wolf Pack," by Daniel R. Stahler, Douglas W. Smith, and Robert Landis for an example.  But again, I digress.  I am not a wolf expert.  I am, however, a dog expert. 

Dogs do not act in an unpredictable fashion around other dogs.  They show distinct, predictable behaviors.  They covet, bully, hump, solicit, fear, play (though even play has social purpose among dogs).  They posture, act out, teach, steal, tease, share, pee and poop, intimidate, kiss up, brawl, and try to please.  Dogs even pretend to ignore, and get grumpy and impatient.  Dogs are highly social, but not always in a mirthful, altruistic sense; they interact for personal, and often selfish reasons.  And, in my opinion, based on years of experience, they do it nearly as well as wolves. 

The revulsion of the term "pack," in my opinion, stems not from honest objective observation, interpretation and experience, but rather from an emotional (and, for some, economic) desire to redefine the dog, and move it closer to humans in behavior, wants, and desires. An attempt, if you will, to morph the dog into a childlike, simian companion, with little connection to its ancestral birthright.  The term "grouping" is perhaps less threatening to these would-be anthropomorphisers, who ever pine for a new philosophical and behavioral model that re-defines the dog into something more nurturing and squishy, and less like the ancient tribal predator it was born to be.

To deny the dog its clannish heritage is insulting, and naïve.  The same people who now rebuff the dog/wolf connection are often the first to point to how similar human physiology and behavior is to the great apes, particularly chimps and gorillas.  This, despite the fact that we are millions of years removed from them, while the dog is only tens of thousands of years removed from the wolf.  Dog and wolf DNA are nearly identical, while chimp and human DNA, though very close, are nowhere near as similar.  True, selective breeding has accelerated the process, but can any of you state with a straight face that the Siberian Husky or the German Shepherd are farther removed from the wolf than an orangutan is from Justin Bieber?

Let's get back to our eight dogs in a fenced yard.  Once placed in there, they will, without hesitation, begin to interact.  Some will play chase games, others will hold peeing or pooping contests, one or two might snap and snarl, two might fall in love, and one might hide in a corner.  But, without pause, a palpable group dynamic will begin to form, and anyone with any dog experience at all will see a hierarchy, or power ladder, take shape.  It won't be precise at first; two or three dogs might run themselves silly then plop down together, exhausted, while a few others might wander about eating grass and watching the events peripherally, nervously wondering what to do next.  One fearful, two modest, one untenably macho- all of this is the hierarchy forming.  It's schoolyard.  Remember?  Do you honestly think that there wasn't a playground hierarchy? 

To all of you long term dog owners who have had multiple dogs in the home; you know what I'm talking about.  You don't need me to convince you that a home hierarchy exists, and that you becoming the beneficent, respected mentor is always the key to harmony.  You know how crucial "cult of personality" is to dogs. 

Is a dog hierarchy less efficient than that perfected by wolves?  Darn sure.  But a hierarchy nonetheless.  For any trainer or dog advocate to deny that this dynamic should be recognized and used in the training procedure is poppycock.  Another excellent word.

Some claim that observing the behavior of domestic dogs in our artificially conceived, human environments cannot accurately portray their true instincts, and that, to get an honest appraisal of the "pack" potential of Canis familiaris, one would need to watch stable, feral dog packs in action, something that is very hard to do, as wild dog packs are by their nature fleeting, and too imperiled to safely breed multiple generations of wild dogs. 

I personally know individuals who have studied (and aided) multi-generational packs of dogs containing both strays and feral dogs, in Mexico, Puerto Rico and in parts of Southern Italy; all report hierarchical structures- short-lived and very fluid, to be sure, but clearly identifiable. And, the greatest dog I have ever known, Lou, subject of my memoir Last Dog On The Hill, lived feral for the first six months of his life, before he rocked my world and rose the bar for all dogs.  His feral beginnings helped him to become something more than a dog- a wolfish conduit between nature and civilization, I suppose- something that cannot be quantified by observation, pontification, or scholastic supposition.  Providence, it seems, cannot be yet measured in the classroom.

Honestly- we are all interested more in our dogs, and in their behavior, than in the artificial, fleeting construct of the feral pack.  To that end, I must tell you that, having trained and associated with thousands of dogs over the last twenty years, it has been clear that every single one of them had a hunger for status, power, privilege, and guidance.  One cannot avoid seeing and understanding patterns of hierarchical behavior, after experiencing this level of contact. 

Ah, who to trust- who to listen to.  Who is right?  Most of us, in varying degrees I suppose, with the possible exception of those du jour revisionists who attempt to redefine the nature of things in order to please, or prosper.

With regard to expertise on dog behavior, I think it comes down to this; if you wished to learn about how fine oak furniture is made, would you listen to an experienced carpenter, or to a university arborist?

Back to the eight dog yard.  A squirrel, perhaps high on fermented wild grapes, foolishly hops down into the yard, to search for a walnut he'd buried a year before.  Do the dogs ignore it?  Do they chaotically chase it around, without any cooperation whatsoever?  Not at all.  I can tell you from experience that these eight dogs will, without a huddle, subconsciously and wolfishly cooperate to nail that drunken rodent and send him to his maker.  Two fast dogs take off after it, while three others instinctively calculate the terrified squirrel's likely trajectory and potential escape routes, cutting him off and ending it.  It's an event driven by an instinct buried deep in their bones.  It's wolfish.

I have owned dogs who could hunt with the skill of a fox.  I've owned and trained dogs who demanded respect or subservience, and dogs who needed to be subordinate in order to be happy.  But every dog I have ever known has, to varying levels, understood instinctively that privilege equals power, and obedience, deference.  And that, I contend, is the essence of the divide; some dog lovers simply cannot avoid treating their pets as equals, and abhor the idea of pet compliance.  But when you try to make a dog your equal (can't be done, by the way- not from the dog's perspective), you short circuit the age-old concept that I have been carping about here- the hierarchy is their overarching rule book.  Dogs given gratis attention, allowed to go anywhere, do anything, sleep anywhere, eat anything, jump, bark, nip, snarl, ignore, discipline- these dogs are stinking miserable.  Like children who crave direction and boundaries, dogs cannot prosper without a beneficent maharishi there to oversee their world, and define what is good or bad.  And, truth be told, any dog without a healthy sense of deference to its owner, or an understanding of consequences, is always a royal pain in the ass.

I have said this before; dogs who naturally want to do one thing but choose to do another because it is what you want them to do, are the happiest, most affable pets around.  Compliance through force or intimidation?  No- except when absolutely necessary, to prevent disaster.  But getting your dog to want to please you is the key, something that will never happen through the use of a bucket of bribes, distraction theory, an attitude of complete parity, or in a belief that the dog has no connection to the wolf.  It will only happen if you understand that your dog needs a kind, competent, omniscient mentor at the helm, every day, just as a pack of wolves needs big daddy to call the shots. 

Or, you could get yourself that box of hamsters and have a ball.

The Elder

Flavio doesn't run off, doesn't have accidents unless he's sick, destroys nothing but his food, and can be left in the house for hours without concern.  He's patient and kind with kids, and will let anyone pet him. The other day he had about two hundred people love on him at a local café, including giants, baby talkers, drug addicts, homeless people, caffeine-charged students, and even toddlers.  He is as easygoing as a dog can be. 

As we get older, we develop habits. I incessantly crack my right big toe, watch too much Family Guy, snore, clear my throat like an old lion.  I make wine and garden like my grandfather did.  I obsess on shooting par.  I complain that kids (and dogs) these days have no discipline, yada yada yada.  I'm a curmudgeon- a mostly affable curmudgeon, I hope.

That's what happens to old dogs.  They get easy, and... odd.  They grunt and groan, they snore.  They treat the food bowl like it's a font of godly knowledge.  They stare out the window, or at you.  They carefully plan the ascent of steps instead of leaping up them.  They dream more, about squirrels, or the beady eyes of raccoons in the back yard. 

Flavio licks the carpeting in the family room, incessantly.  I think he likes the feel of it on his tongue.  He has "backward sneeze" jags every other week.  He goes through bouts of chewing on his butt, for absolutely no reason- no fleas, no dermatitis, no dirt- he simply likes it, the same way my 87 year-old dad likes to rub the crown of his head over and over while he thinks too much about the Yankees or the mega millions lottery. 

Flavio licks his chops at night, over and over.  He labors over when to lie down and when to get up, because at his age, it's no easy deal to get that lanky bulk up or down.  He has taken to lying right in front of the door to the family room, even though he knows someone is bound to open it up right into his face at any moment.  He had begun to savor holding a rubber ball gently in his mouth, like a guppy holding its young. 

He sighs more.  He reflects.  I'm not sure why I believe it, but I suspect he thinks about Lou a bit more these days.  I can feel it. 

It's peaceful, and stately.  It's the calm before the storm, I know, but right now, I'll savor his deliberateness, his bearing, his eccentricities.  It comforts me, and helps evoke dogs long gone, especially Lou, my Lou. 

One day, perhaps, Flavio's little brother Rico will become an elder statesman too, learn introspection and restraint, become a model for some young upstart.  When hell freezes over, no doubt.  But today, I'll enjoy Flavio, and I'll make sure he knows I do.