Bones Would Rain from the Sky: Deepening Our Relationships with Dogs (15 page)

that you've left your ego at home that day and
does oblige you to figure out how to liven up the
lesson.
"The point, my dear pig, is that in learning to walk
on leash and harness you will gain the freedom to go
outside for walks with us in areas not safely fenced for
you." My speech, naturally, fell on deaf ears
(his squeals may have affected his hearing as well,
and if not, I encourage some scientist somewhere to find
out why not). Verbal communications are rather limited when
addressing animals-they're more of a Missouri
mind-set: "Show me." So, I showed Connor why this
was important. I took him outside the barn, a
short trip made possible with a lot of jellybeans
and careful use of blockades to encourage
progress toward the barn door. Once outside,
his squeals diminished as he began eagerly snuffling
his way across the farmyard. By the time we reached the lush
green grass of the lawn, he understood what the point
was and settled down to eat his way toward the house.
By his second leash-and-harness lesson, he
complained only briefly when he first left his pen and
until he reached the outdoors. By the third
lesson, he stood politely while his harness was
put on, and like an absolute gentleman, walked
out into the sunshine with nary a squeal.
Since then, just like dogs who leap for joy at the
sight of their leashes, Connor has welcomed both the
harness and the freedom it allows him (or did until
he grew so large that harnessing him was akin to harnessing a
Volkswagen with no brakes and a determined mind).
We had only one other incident with squealing
complaints, and it took me a while to understand what he
was telling me. We had set off for a long walk in
the woods and fields, accompanied by two guests
and a few dogs. Connor was a delightful walking
companion who set a leisurely pace and whose
motto might be summed up as "be sure to stop and
eat the flowers." Halfway through the planned route,
one of the guests indicated he was tired and in danger
of being carried away by hungry mosquitoes, so I
headed for home, retracing our steps. The instant
I changed my plans, Connor began to squeal. This
puzzled me since he hadn't uttered a peep
the entire trip. The farther we walked, the more he
squealed, and these were the squeals of complaint, not fear
or pain or worry. Eventually, the answer came
clear in the shift in his body posture and
explorations. He was just trudging along without
exploring, and I realized that he looked and sounded for

all the world like a portly child who was
disgruntled by a fun expedition cut short. To test
my theory, I veered off the path into an area he had
not yet explored. Immediately his head went down and he
was quiet again, happy that we were headed somewhere new.
Sadly, the already traveled (and explored) trail
was the only comfortable route home. When I resumed
walking along behind the guests, Connor once again
began telling us just how little he thought of it all. He
was the piggy I heard tell of as a child-the one who
cried wee-wee-wee all the way home.
Is this So? It is okay to guess what an animal is
feeling, just as it's okay to guess what any human
is thinking. This is how we learn to know one another,
by guesses based on our own experiences, our (always
imperfect) understanding of how someone else
communicates what they are feeling or thinking, and our
willingness to accept feedback and fine-tune our
behavior. It's okay to guess what your dog is
trying to communicate as long as you're willing
to accept that you might be wrong, correct your
misunderstanding and try again. It is not okay to guess
what an animal is thinking or feeling if you are
unwilling to accept nothing less than absolute
compliance with your wishes. Far too common
are assertions that someone "knows" why a dog did or
did not do something; rarely is that guess tested against
the reality of the dog's responses. I make a
lot of guesses based on my observations of a
dog's behavior, the situation and many years of
experience. But I'm also interested in testing my
guesses against reality. In one way or another,
I create a situation that asks the dog, "Is this
so? Is that how it is for you? Did I guess right?"
I'm as grateful when I'm wrong as when I'm
right. Results I did not expect are evidence that
I've guessed wrong and need to try again; they are
also opportunities for me to learn more than I
knew when I guessed incorrectly. This is how
all of us learn anything, and it
is how all of us learn to understand others.
A relationship is a learning process, and one that
never ends; we never "master" a relationship as we
might a skill, like learning to ride a bicycle.
But there are similarities that are useful
to remember. When you were learning to ride a bicycle,
you engaged in what is known as a feedback loop.

As you tried to master the seemingly simple
act of balancing on two wheels in motion, you had
to constantly adjust according to the information your body was
getting. At first, the feedback loop was sloppy.
This, of course, was due only to your inexperience and
misunderstanding comthe bicycle, responsive only to the
laws of gravity, had no ulterior motives or
desire to unseat you. Aware of losing your balance,
you compensated too soon or too much or too
late. But as you persisted, the feedback loop
became tighter, quicker, and you learned to adjust only
to actual information received through your feeling of balance and
what you saw visually. Eventually, the feedback
loop was fast but unimpeded by your fear or anxious,
premature adjustments, and you rode the bicycle
down the street.
Relationships are the ultimate in feedback
loops. The speed, accuracy and detail of a
feedback loop offers a good clue to the intensity of
relationship. For example, if you are having a bad
day, you may seem to casual acquaintances or
strangers to be perfectly fine-the feedback loop
between you and them is a relatively crude one, so that
subtleties of expression or movement are often
lost. But to someone who loves you, it may be
unmistakably clear in the shape of your
mouth or the cast of your eyes that you are having a bad
day. They have "learned" you, and they did so because they were
curious, because they were willing to guess and pay
attention to the feedback loop of your responses and
your behavior, adjust their own actions accordingly and try
again. When we join the dog in a healthy, trusting
relationship, bringing intense curiosity, empathy and a
humble willingness to learn, a feedback loop of very
high order can be created. Fine distinctions and
subtleties become possible, and even minute
gestures can take on great meaning. We are well
on the road to understanding each other.
All of us-man and beast-move through life trying to be
heard, trying to listen. Should I ever lose the power
to speak and to write, my two
major forms of communication, I sincerely hope that
someone loves me enough to guess what I'm trying
to say. I sincerely hope someone is intensely
curious about what's going on inside me and takes
the time to listen to the whole message. I hope someone
treats me like a dog they love very much.

Honesty is the first chapter in the book of
wisdom.
thomas Jefferson

THE OLD SAW NOTES THAT NOTHING IN
LIFE IS CERTAIN except death and taxes.
I suspect the author of that little cynicism
didn't have a dog, or he'd have known that there is
another certainty: A dog will always tell you the
truth. (actually, this is true of a majority of
animals, with the exceptions of human beings and our
closest kin, the great apes. Nice to know that so much
shared DNA also allows for outright deception if not
matching opposable thumbs.) Mind you, this is not
the
Truth mankind has sought since the beginning of time,
though I'll grant dogs have their fair-share number
of that puzzle's pieces. A dog will tell you
his truth, which springs directly from his understanding and
experience of his world. Dogs are ruthlessly,
unfailingly, reliably honest. What you see is
what you get. There are no ulterior motives, or
at least hidden ones- our dogs think nothing of giving
us wonderful affectionate hugs while also leaning
over our shoulders to lick a plate! This does not
mean the dog will tell you what you want
to hear.
By honesty, I mean that the dog will report
faithfully to you in his body language and behavior
what he is feeling at the moment. If a dog is
angry, he'll be quite clear about that. If he's
happy, he shows it. Assuming we can accurately
learn to understand what he's saying, we can rely on the
dog to tell us what's going on for him at that moment.
Concealed feelings are not part of a dog's world. If you
could ask a dog "How are you?" and receive an answer
of "Feeling great, thanks!" that is an answer you
could bet the farm on without placing anything in jeop-
ardy. Ask a human the same question, and while you
may get the same jolly answer, that person may
be concealing their anxiety over being fired five
minutes earlier or hiding their anger at something you
did fifteen years ago. What makes human
communications especially tricky is that people have the
ability to externally display behavior congruent with
one emotional or mental state while internally
experiencing something else altogether. This is commonly known
as lying. (and when people are very good at concealing such
incongruence, sometimes we call them
politicians.)

To the best of my knowledge, there are no
mechanisms in the canine behavioral repertoire
that allow for deceit. The closest thing to deceit I
have ever witnessed was a dog who somehow learned that if
she barked convincingly at the front door, other
dogs would rush to join her, giving up the spot on the
couch that she coveted. She did not use this behavior
frequently-maybe four times in my experience.
(which begs the question-if this was a deliberate and
successful deception, why didn't she use it more
often or anytime that she wanted access to her spot
on the couch?) Our conclusion was that she was barking at
nothing, and had done so only to get the others off the
couch. But this conclusion may speak more to our state of
mind than to an accurate reflection of dog
behavior. Knowing just how keen a dog's senses are
and how many times I've incorrectly discounted a
dog's communication only because I saw nothing
outside, I'm not sure that there was "nothing" there.
Since I've encountered no other form of deceit in
dogs (or many other species), I'm
hard-pressed to count that single example of possible
deceit as meaningful, though I've heard of other
dogs learning the same or similar behavior. If
that's the extent of doggy dishonesty, I'll take it.
not a matter of choice
Given our tendency to romanticize the noble beast and
place animals as superior to (instead of
different from) humans in certain aspects, I think
it is important to recognize that the dog's
honesty springs from an inability
to lie. The dog's honesty does not arise out of any
moral superiority but rather from the fact that he is
incapable of dishonesty. Lying
is simply not a part of canine communications. I have
seen dogs offer behaviors that they thought were expected
or wanted, but they did not offer them with an intent
to deceive. Those who would place the dog or any other
animal on a pedestal for being honest are missing the
point-human honesty is noble precisely because it
reflects a deliberate choice between lying and
telling the truth. Dogs lack the option, thus do not
consciously choose to be honest. Just as mercy is the
possession of power not brought to bear, honesty is the
possession of a capacity for deceit that is not used.
While we should be more than a little grateful for
animal honesty, no merit should be assigned for not

doing what you are incapable of doing anyhow;
it's kind of like congratulating a blind man for not ogling
a naked woman.
On the other hand, the value of this honesty should not be
discounted. Whether the result of conscious choice or
simple inability, honesty is an extraordinary
gift in any relationship. And yet, we
frequently discount the dog's utter truthfulness about
what he thinks in any given situation. It may be
that we do this for two reasons. First, unfailing
honesty is almost inconceivable based on our human
experiences. Second, complete honesty is not always
entirely pleasant; truth encompasses both
welcome and unwelcome messages.
In even our most trusting relationships with people, we
remain aware that at some level, the potential for
deception is ever present. The human mind is
unfortunately quite capable of deceit on scales
both grand and petty. And no matter who we are or
how wonderful we try to become, each of us is
uneasily aware that we possess the capacity for
lying; our awareness arises from experience with our own
minds and our own behavior. The struggle to become
honest is one all humans face, because our needs and
fears inevitably bring us into conflict with the needs and
fears of others. Lies, small or big,
are one way of navigating through unfamiliar waters,
though if we are wise, we learn that we have traded
on trust for only momentary relief and have quite
possibly entangled ourselves further in very dangerous
tides.
Though we may give lip service to understanding that
animals are honest beings, it is not easy
to incorporate that knowledge into our relationships with them. For a
moment, really try to imagine living your life where all
that you hoped for, feared, worried about, lusted after,
disliked, hated, loved, adored, longed for or
coveted was clearly written on your face and in your
body language. Imagine being a dog, if you can,
and living a life where you were incapable of telling a
lie. What if as a dog, you find yourself among
well-meaning but ignorant folks? Since their own
behavior includes lies and deliberate
deceptions, they would assume that you are also capable of
lies. All you said and did would be interpreted through a
filter of assumption that though you
appeared honest, there was quite possibly deception and
ulterior motive behind your actions. These might be
maddening people to deal with-unable to be completely honest
themselves, they also could not believe that you were capable of
such. Unless we learn to be aware of our own
responses, and to see the dog not as a person but
purely as a dog offering his animal honesty, the
fullness of the gift of honesty will elude us.
Dogs do not have even the most rudimentary form of
deceit-the "white lie," a form of dishonesty that many
people consider harmless since theoretically the intent of the
white lie is to protect another's feelings.
Human culture teaches us that to be polite is
to suppress our immediate responses, to not blurt out
what's really on our mind. Though the real intent of
tactfulness is to shape our communications with respect
to the listener's feelings, more often our politeness
only means that we have been trained to a fine degree
of social dishonesty. If a woman asks, "Do
I look fat in this dress?" it is only a fool
or a brave friend who confesses that perhaps another
style might better show off her considerable assets.
(a dog, of course, would wonder why a dress was
even necessary; buck-ass naked is just as acceptable to a
dog as any designer gown. For dogs, life is
a come-z-y-are party.) At best, social
dishonesty keeps the waters relatively untroubled
and characterizes many relationships in their early stages,
at least till we've had a chance to see how our
boat floats and how best to navigate on those
waters. But within a meaningful relationship, intimacy
is closely linked to the degree of honesty within
ourselves and the other. In our relationships with dogs and
other animals, the barrier to complete honesty lies
only in us.
Absolute honesty is not easy to take,
especially when it arrives in the form dogs offer it
to us: blunt and not tactfully shaped to slide
unwelcome information past our emotional defenses.
At times, we might appreciate just a touch of
social dishonesty from our dogs. One of my
and nothing but the truth