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Bowie, the four-legged dog in our family, would like to visit his friends, instead of looking out the window in their general direction, but most of them are trapped in their owners’ houses. As he is, much to his chagrin.
There are those who say dogs do not need social interaction. They are mistaken.
So he awaits, sometimes patiently, our walks in the woods where he snuffles around, tearing into rotted logs looking for beetles to play with. Night time there are rabbits that wait for him to come out so they can outrun him. That’s their game. Chasing them is his.
The few times he has escaped his leash, he has not gone long, or far. He acknowledges I have called him and circles close enough to let me know he’s OK, having fun, and not ready to come home. Until he is — then he comes to me and allows me to attach the leash to guide him back home.
He is, in many ways, my son in an earlier time.
Raising a kid to obey orders is fairly easy. My dad had it down. There was one reason for doing as one was told: “Because I said so, and I’ve got the leather belt.”
There was one result for disobedience. Even suspected disobedience. He never apologized for getting it wrong.
A benefit of my military career was that it restricted my opportunities for teaching my kids what I had learned when I was their age. The bad news was it also delayed my opportunity to realize what I had learned was wrong.
I think of that often when Bowie practices his own autonomy. He will come to me immediately when he is on the leash. But when he is off the leash … not so fast!
The other night as we came in from our nightly stroll, something caught his attention. He stopped to look back over his shoulder, his curiosity clearly piqued by something only he had noticed. He repeated the look-back several times as we crossed the open grass between the woods and the door.
I normally unsnap his leash at the door and he eagerly enters the house. This time, I unsnapped the leash and he immediately turned and walked back toward the woods. He stopped once to look back at me.
“Are you coming?” he seemed to ask. “Let’s see what it was.”
I said I needed to get inside. He turned and ambled off toward the woods and I went in to tell my spouse Bowie had slipped away.
“Are you going to go after him,” she asked.
“No, he’ll be back,” I replied. “That’s why I left the door open.”
About 10 minutes later, his curiosity satisfied, he appeared in the living room, and I went to close the door. I wish he could have told me what he’d been looking for. He wishes the same thing, no doubt. I’ve long believed that just because they don’t speak our language doesn’t mean they don’t understand it.
Yesterday a man came to the door to measure our kitchen for cabinets. It was the gent’s third time into the house.
“I know this guy,” Bowie thought, “and he’s not here to play with me, so …”
He slipped between our legs and headed across the street. He has a friend over there, one of those not often allowed out of the house. Oh, well, it was worth a shot. And off he went to explore the rest of the neighborhood.
Eventually he found a yard that was interesting and I, in my seeking, arrived at the same yard to talk with a person who spoke a language I could understand. She and I chatted awhile and watched Bowie sniff around, within sight but cleverly remaining out of reach.
Raising a dog and raising a human are not so different. If you want them to think and have initiative you have to be ready for them to not always agree with you about what comes next. Of course, both of them also need to learn the wisdom of at least occasionally following instructions.
She asked what I would do to him when I got him home. Not beat him I said. That would only give him another reason to not want to come home.
I would give him a cold shoulder, and now and then tell him I’m still a little unhappy with his behavior. He understands. I can tell because he wants to come jump in my lap but instead just hangs his head and stays in his corner of the couch.
The next time we went out, we were back to normal. He eagerly led me where he wanted to go and I obediently followed, and waited while he sniffed around interesting scents and dug into the lairs of unseen critters.
Just because we don’t speak each others’ language doesn’t mean we can’t understand.
Text and Images ©2024 John Messeder. John is an award-winning environmental storyteller, nemophilist and social anthropologist living in Gettysburg, PA. He may be contacted at john@johnmesseder.com