The Wrong Dog

One foggy morning, while driving through the Skagit Valley, I stopped to photograph a birch tree which stood, alone and magnificent, in a nursery amid rows of shrubbery.

I got out of the car to take a closer look at this field, which lay along the water's edge, and encountered this sweet sad dog, tied to a tree. She was very patient, receptive and gentle, happy to see me, didn't jump up, didn't beg or whine or snarl, and seemed accustomed to -- though not necessarily happy with -- her lot. In some ways I saw myself reflected in her eyes: I found myself thinking, she got the wrong owner -- and I got the wrong dog.

A couple of days ago I encountered again a book I had set down in mid-read several months ago. I suspect I set it down because the subject became too difficult to read: the book, by Lewis, Amini and Lannon, is called A General Theory of Love, and I had reached the section where it explains something best summarized by Roger Martin in a review in American Scientist Online:

"Throughout our lives, we reach, time and again, for that old familiar love—the kind we knew in our families, the kind that came our way, for better or worse, from mother, father, siblings, nanny. These blueprints lead some of us into the arms of those who yawn and look at their watches, or pick on us, or praise us and belittle us in the same breath, or reject us cruelly—or even hit. Like chocolate Labradors (who also have limbic systems), we may cross paths with folks who would be kinder to us than those we ultimately choose, who would be quicker with treats, fonder of walks. But we pooh-pooh the nice guys: We sniff a little and trot off, uninterested. Later, over merlot, we lament to friends: "Geez, he's a swell guy, but the chemistry's just not there."

I find this concept of the early familial imprinting which guides some of us to repeatedly choose inappropriate friends and lovers to be ineffably sad. And the image of the dog, inextricably bonded to his master even though others might feed him better treats, or walk him more, or tie him up less, is truly heartbreaking. Moreso, I think, because (like many dog owners) I feel my own dog doesn't really get the life he deserves.

In a lot of ways my dog is perfect: he's medium sized, fuzzily adorable, doesn't shed, doesn't need a lot of exercise, and is totally bonded to me. But he barks loudly and snarls terrifyingly at anyone who comes to our door, and is very protective of me. (A friend has suggested that I have projected all my trust issues onto him).

In addition, we cannot allow him to roam free, as we live on a beach and his greatest delight is to roll in and/or eat dead things and otter or goose poop and throw up in the house. Though we used to make allowances for this, we can no longer risk letting him out loose, as he has become diabetic and we have to watch his diet too closely. So his only outings occur on leash, but he is way more interested in sniffing the leavings of other dogs than he is in walking -- despite obedience sessions with three different trainers -- so the walks tend to be control battles, and rarely last long enough to give either of us any exercise.

Luckily humans can have their limbic inclinations retrained by competent psychiatrists. But for a dog, the choices are more limited, and it falls to us to cope as best we can with the dog we have been given, to provide at least a semblance of the tender care and affection they deserve. Like that bumper sticker a former contractor of mine had on the back of his truck:

Lord, help me be the person my dog thinks I am.

Somehow I suspect that I didn't get the wrong dog at all: I got the right dog to help me in ways I can only begin to comprehend. And in learning to live gracefully with his quirks, I can come to gain a fuller acceptance of my own.