Bones Would Rain from the Sky: Deepening Our Relationships with Dogs (17 page)

the horrified look on the client's faces. In
one brief moment created out of my arrogance and
ignorance, they had seen their young dog turn into a
fierce beast capable of biting and drawing blood. This
was not a bad dog; this was just an untrained dog. My
glib assignment of blame to the dog was unfair, and
I knew it. Much later, I was willing to accept the
truth that can be found in a dog's eyes, the sometimes
unwelcome but valuable truth about my own
behavior. In that moment, I began to understand that a
dog's absolute honesty is a gift of light on
the darker corners of my soul.
There's another twist that complicates the issue of
honesty. Though we can trust that what the dog tells
us is an honest communication,
the dog expects the same from us.
And that can present some interesting dilemmas.
Firmly fixed in their canine perspective, dogs
assume that our communications to them are like theirs
to us-honest, straightforward and meaningful. In this, dogs
are very much like young children, unable to see us except as we
are in relationship to them.
My all-time favorite comment on what this really
means on a day-today basis came from one of
my clients. She was trying to figure out how
to solve some minor problems with her three dogs, and
as the conversation went on, it became apparent that one
of the underlying problems was her inconsistency in her
communications with the dogs. Trying to help her understand
why it was important that she be consistent in what she
said and did, I mentioned that dogs didn't understand how
or why it was that she came home each day in a
variety of moods. They didn't see her as a
hardworking saleswoman with a pain in the ass for a
boss. They only saw her as the head of their
family group and, as such, paid great attention to what
she said and did. They always told her the truth and
expected that she also meant what she said. There was a
long pause on her end of the phone, and then a gasp
as the full meaning of what I said sunk in. "Oh
no!" she wailed. "You mean they believe everything
I say?"
The answer, of course, was yes-dogs do believe
what we say. They have no other way of interpreting
our communications. The blessing of being able to trust that
what our dogs say is what they really mean is not
without cost; in return for their trustworthiness, dogs
expect no less from us.

Understanding that a dog's responses are always honest
ones is easy to accept intellectually. Bringing that
understanding to bear in the moments of day-to-day life is
something else altogether, particularly since so many of our
daily interactions are dishonest or only partially
trustworthy simply because they are interactions with other
humans. Even if we practice what we preach,
it takes a long time for our belief in a dog's
honesty to sink deep into our bones. As . Allen
Boone discovered, it is possible to open yourself to new
ways of seeing and conversing with animals, but to do so
requires that we work to resolve the stumbling
blocks within ourselves. When we clear away the
blinders we have placed on our own eyes, we see
standing before us animals who offer us the amazing gift of
honesty in their communications with us. Accepting this gift
opens a new world of possibility in our
relationships with our dogs.
Now Is a good time
Dogs offer us another gift that, like their truthfulness,
is a double-edged sword: the gift of immediacy.
What they have to say is said honestly and in the very moment
it needs to be said. In their immediacy, dogs are like
young children. Whether unhappy or ecstatic, they
don't wait for weeks to tell you about it.
(and like honesty, this isn't out of choice-it's just the
way it is with dogs.) What a dog feels, he
tells you. Right then. Not a few hours later, or
a year. From the moment you even think about putting on
your shoes, grabbing a coat and reaching for the leash, the
dog tells you how thrilled he is that you're going
for a walk together. At every step of the walk, the dog
tells you how much fun he's having, and how very glad
he is to be with you. One of the great pleasures of being
with dogs is their spontaneous expression of what
they are feeling. A dog never needs to say "I
may not tell you enough but. . ." That's a phrase
humans need, especially adult humans.
You would think in a society that wants instant
gratification and immediate feedback, this quality of
immediacy would be welcomed. But immediacy
requires an equal response. This is not always
convenient. No matter what else may be going on,
you cannot tell a sobbing
two-year-old to stop crying and promise her a
thoughtful discussion later about balloons and their
tendency to drift away once the string is released

from a small hand. The loss is now, and the
upset child needs attention now. No mother dog ever
told her puppies: "You just wait until your father
gets home" or "We'll discuss this later."
Whatever needs to be dealt with is dealt with at the
moment the need arises.
Dogs do not understand delayed responses-it's just not
part of their world, though it certainly is part of human
experience. To be successful in communicating with
dogs, therefore, we need to really understand what that means
in a practical, daily sense, and not just in theory.
In canine culture, responses are as immediate as the
communication that prompted the response.
There are benefits to delayed responses, such as
allowing us to gather our thoughts, deal with our own
emotions and not act impulsively or hurtfully.
But most of us have learned that delayed responses can
also be hurtful or at the very least surprising. Few
things are as destructive to a relationship as
long-held resentments or hurt unexpressed,
sometimes stewing and festering for years before erupting in
painful and shocking ways that can do serious damage far
beyond the scope of the original cause.
In our relationships with dogs, delayed responses
to a dog's actions can create very serious problems.
With a human friend, we might simmer slowly
for a few hours before pointing out that something they did or
said hurt or upset us; a discussion at that point can
be helpful, since our human friend is able to go back
in time and understand that it is the past being discussed. But
we cannot do this with a dog-yelling at a dog who chewed
up your best loafers hours or even minutes before you
walked through the door and discovered the dastardly deed
is not only useless but very confusing and even frightening for the
dog.
Dogs draw very straight lines when connecting the
dots in life. Faced with a place mat meant
to entertain bored children at a diner, a dog would not
bother to search out the convoluted path from Start
to Finish-they'd just draw a line that went directly
from one to the other. In terms of our relationships with
them, dogs believe that however it is we are acting,
whatever it is we are doing is directly connected
to that moment and to their own behavior in that moment. Thus
the dog who merrily greets his returning owner and is
promptly yelled at or met with an angry face
does not think, "Oh, I'll bet she's not happy
I ate those new Nikes a few hours ago The

dog may simply tiptoe away, unsure of what provoked your
(to him) inexplicable wrath. Or he may draw a straight line from
Angry Owner to Greeting, and assume that you are
angry that he's approaching you. In contrast,
expressing your displeasure when you actually catch the
dog in the act of chewing on your new sneakers
allows him to do a little simple dog math (if you do
this, this happens) and reach the proper conclusion: Shoes
do not constitute an appropriate food group.
There's a lot to recommend an approach to life
where everything happens in real time, so to speak.
Imagine having a friend let you know at the very instant
things between you went out of balance. We trust our
closest friends to tell us that there's a bit of toilet
paper stuck to our shoe or some spinach in our teeth.
The world would be a far different place if our trusted
intimates could also help us maintain more than our
physical decorum. It would be good to have someone let
you know that your emotional zipper needs adjusting, but
such friends are rare. Coupled with the understanding that your friend
would always be truthful, this would provide an amazing
freedom in which to develop a profound relationship.
Dogs do let us know our mental flies have come
undone, though we don't always care to hear the
message.
You can't talk about it later when a dog tells you
something is wrong. Right there, in that moment, when things have
slid off balance, when communication is most
essential (but also most often missing), the dog
needs an answer, a resolution to the conflict.
Without ego, a dog stands before you without caring about who
is watching or what they might think of you or him.
He doesn't care that the clock is running or that
the competition is lost or that the neighbors are
looking on. He only cares about what is happening
between you and him, and more than anything, he wants it to be
right again. This does not feel good, this anxiety, this
fear, this strange behavior from someone he trusts,
someone he depends upon to lead the dance. And so he
tells you in every way he can, his eyes troubled,
"Something is wrong." To hear him, we need to quiet
the roar of our ego and silence the critical voices
eagerly reminding us that the clock is ticking, that people
are watching, that we look
like fools, that we do not belong here, that we are
failures. When we hush our own minds, we can
hear the pure sweet sound of a dog urging us to make

this right. Now. And when we learn to do this with
our dogs, it spills over to other relationships.
When we hush the noise in our own minds, we
remember that life is short and that the connections with
those we love are precious; to live most fully,
we need to address disconnections and distance between us and
those we care about as quickly as we can. As our dogs
remind us every day, now is always the best time to make
things right. Like his honesty, a dog's immediacy is
a double- edged sword that cuts both ways.
Incapable of deceit, unable to understand the future, the
dog lives in the now and expects that we will meet
him there.
I once heard a psychologist discussing parentstch
relationships. She pointed out that one of the greatest
gifts any parent could give a child was simply to be
genuinely glad when the child came into the room. Thinking
about this, I realized that this is the gift our dogs
give us over and over. If I step out to pick a
few sprigs of parsley from the herb bed just at the
edge of our front steps, I return to cheerful
greetings and wagging tails. My dogs are glad
to see me though I was gone only a moment. I thought
about my own son and wondered how many times he had
seen a clear welcome on my face when he came
into view. With shame and regret, I thought
of how many times I had greeted him or John or
anyone else I loved with less than gladness.
Looked at one way, it is easy to sneer at the
dog's glad greetings as the product of a dim
memory or a simple mind. But I know my dogs
have very good memories and that they are intelligent beings.
I'm not willing to discount this gift of immediacy; it
grounds me in the reality of here and now. And I'm
definitely not willing to dismiss the gladness in my
dogs" eyes when they greet me. If Robert
Frost was right, and home is the place where they have
to take you in, then may home always contain a dog
who loves you so you are sure of one glad greeting
at least.

what I really meant to say was ...
The Greatest problem in communication is the
Illusion that it has been accomplished.
daniel . davenport

though i'm sure somewhere in the Dog Trainer's Ten
Commandments there is a warning against the sin of coveting
thy client's pup, I just couldn't help myself.
Truth be told, I coveted Dodger, an
eight-month- old mixed breed with astounding eyes and

considerable intelligence. His owner Jennifer
told me that Dodger was "hyper," an awfully
vague description that further questioning proved to mean
he was easily excited at certain times, such as when
she went to unhook him from his dog run and bring him
into the house. She was also concerned that he was possibly
aggressive, since in his excitement he
frequently grabbed her hands and legs with his mouth.
In the last two weeks, Jennifer had found herself not
even wanting to bring the dog into the house. She was
afraid and upset that the family companion she had
hoped for was slowly turning into an unmanageable
monster who weighed sixty pounds and was still growing.
She knew Dodger wasn't stupid or mean. In
fact, he had done very well in training class,
quickly catching on to every new exercise and working well
for her at home once she had him calmed down and
on leash. But his increasingly fierce behavior
deeply worried her.
As we talked, I turned Dodger loose in the
room, watching him as he explored. After a few
minutes, he had thoroughly investigated the room
and, finding it rather dull, returned to sit next
to Jennifer, following the
conversation with his remarkably intelligent eyes.
Each time his name was mentioned, his ears perked up
slightly and his tail wagged, but when nothing more was
directed his way, he resumed his post as
attentive listener. A few more minutes passed and,
now growing bored, Dodger decided to leap up and
visually confirm what his nose had already told him:
There was some particularly delicious food on the
table. As he placed his front paws on the table's
edge, Jennifer scolded, "Dodger!"
Instantly the dog's head swiveled toward her,
alert, ears up, tail wagging. I noted how
responsive this dog was, and how willing he was
to forego the attraction of food for an interaction with his
owner. "Dodger, get off!" Dodger's tail
wagged harder, but his front feet stayed right where they
were. Pushing back her chair, Jennifer reached for the
dog, trying to push him off. In Dodger's eyes,
there was an unmistakably gleeful light. Rolling
his head back and to one side, he responded with a
paw slap toward Jennifer, his tongue lolling
goofily out of the side of his mouth. She shoved him
again, and again the dog waved his leg at her, slapping
a big paw down onto her forearm. She moved