What my dog taught me

      Stretch. Sigh. Pant-pant-pant. Lick the chops. Pant-pant-pant. Perk the ears. Head up. Curious. Push up from the hind legs. Trot toward the noise. The clicking of black toe-nails on wood. Sniff. Muzzle to the floor. Investigate the fallen flower of cold broccoli. Tongue out. Take it into the mouth. Doesn't taste right. Drop it. Pant-pant-pant. Raise head and eyes toward master. Inattentive. Want a head pat. Little tail wag. Master turns, lowers hand. Good boy. Turns back to stove. Trot back to bed. Stretch. Lie down. Sigh. Eyes open, watching, resting. Pant-pant-pant.

     To a dog, everything is now. Animals are a world apart from their owners, though their owners often forget. A dog may be anxious, but it cannot worry. A dog may be afraid or excited, but it cannot be pessimistic or optimistic. A dog may be jealous, but it cannot be bitter.

     To a dog, the past and the future, as we conceive them, do not exist. There is no set of distinct events fading toward the horizon. There is only a general sense of “how things are” and “what will happen if I do this.”

     It is without question that dogs have a sense of immediate past and future, in questions like “this happened because I did this” or “I want this to happen so I will do this.” Training animals that cannot apprehend simple causality, like a jellyfish or a bumblebee, is impossible.

     However, as not only a lover but also an observer of animals, I question anyone who says that dogs can remember distinct events that occurred even hours ago, much less months or years. Not only is such information irrelevant for an uncivilized species, the brain is not developed with those abilities. As researcher William Roberts famously observed, animals are “stuck in time” - they cannot travel backward or forward to other places, events or scenarios, historical or hypothetical. They can't remember when they were puppies or that traumatizing event two months ago, and they plan think ahead for the weekend or even envision themselves taking their afternoon walk. Dogs lack the kind of memory called “episodic.” In other words, even though a dog can learn something, it doesn't remember learning it. Similar psychological phenomena occur among humans in the cases of young children and anterograde amnesiacs.
     Try testing your dog yourself for evidence of episodic memory (thanks, Professor Ira Hyman). Put your dog in the backyard for ten minutes, then go and visit it. If your dog is like mine, it will be immediately overjoyed to see you. Now stay in the backyard for ten minutes. Your dog will quickly become bored with you. Leave the dog in the backyard for another ten minutes, then return. Bless its heart -- it is just as excited as the first time! You could repeat this procedure all day with little to no change in the animal's reaction.

     What about a dog predicting when its master will return home? Doesn't this prove that the dog distinctly remembers past events? Not at all. Dogs remember such repetitive events through something akin to a circadian rhythm or an internal clock. Mine gets antsy in the evening because he knows that we go for a walk every day, and he knows by instinct that it usually happens shortly after he starts whining and pacing in my office. The incessant clickety-click breaks me out of gaming, surfing or (occasionally) working reverie.
     On the other hand it is very difficult to find positive evidence of episodic memory without a strong semantic mode of expression. Hyman explains that this kind of memory is tied to an awareness of the self and argues that even chimps may lack the same cognitive abilities.

     Because of their episodic memory, consistency makes or breaks an animal's happiness. While most will enjoy some variety to their day - an exciting change to the walking circuit or a treat with a new flavor - too much will cause anxiety. Dogs' eyes are hardwired to learn an environment. Think of wolves in the wild. To be successful hunters they need to learn the position of every rock, tree and bush in their territory - and these are props that rarely move. Any aberration is perceived as a red flag, warning bells go off - threat or meal? Human beings, having created their own environments for millenia and abandoning the hunter-gather lifestyle for farming and industry, naturally are no longer this sensitive to visual change in their regular venues. But if you move a couch that hasn't been moved in a while, your dog will notice. Your dog won't even know why - but it will be at least a little anxious about this. The owner may be, too - but at least the owner has the power to move it back. The dog just has to deal with it.

     I've had a dog for nearly three years now. We walk or run together every day, usually late at night, one of the last things I do before I go to sleep. We walk alone. There aren't many people that walk when it's dark, and even when we cross paths with someone, we rarely stop to chat.

     This being the case, I've had hours upon hours to observe my dog's behavior and reflect on his psyche. I have to. I leave him off the leash and often signal him - a finger snap or a single word - to do or not do something. I want to give him as much freedom as I can, because he is first and foremost a living thing, and a pet second. And as one living thing to another, he inspires and challenges me and gives me a window to consider another kind of life.

     For the most part, it's a life that seems inordinately desirable. It is simple, present, and generally without worry. I could do without salutation-by-crotch-sniff and bark-in-the-back-yard-all-day, but the exception proves the rule. Dogs have it pretty good.

     I admire my dog for his boundless joy at the little things. Master coming home after a long day. A belly scratch. A quick game of chase. Scraps falling on the floor while master is cooking. A twisting roll on the grass in the sun. Yet another interesting smell.

     I admire my dog for his devotion and dedication. He is fascinated with me and interested by default in anything I happen to be doing. He is upset when I am upset with him and happy when I am happy with him. His existence only makes sense when he is being my dog.

     Doubtless, it's all too easy to idealize a life unplagued the anxieties that come as the price of a complex grasp of the self and the world. Like Adam and Eve, we have given up the world of instinct for the world of right and wrong, which necessitates experiences of shame, deceit, anger and bitterness, at the same time opening up possibilities of generosity, wisdom, courage and love. In short, the sophistication of our brains contains both the birth and death of civility and civilization - our very humanness.

     I don't wish I wasn't human. But my dog teaches me that when I suffer, it's because I choose to suffer. When I experience conflict, it's because I decided to wrestle with an outside force. My dog teaches me that I have the power to choose my battles. Never fighting at all would, I suggest, reduce my humanness to a mere appearance; and that, I cannot do. But what I can do is apprehend my own complicity in the internal, psychological and spiritual pain I experience every day.

     I believe that through pain comes many good things that would otherwise be inaccessible. Through pain I can forge my way to a new understanding of myself. But, akin to the mandates of just war theory, I must apply the laws of proportionality and comparative justice to each case. It is hardly worth entering a war if I cannot prevent more evil than I cause - if the benefits do not exceed the cost. Strangely, through my dog's inability to choose his battles, he has taught me that I can do what he can't.