Bones Would Rain from the Sky: Deepening Our Relationships with Dogs (36 page)

have placed a particular value on
compliance, if you know your own heart, then you are clear
to make a choice to compel and to do so as fairly as your
knowledge and skill allow. If you understand what lies behind the
refusal, you are also given the gift of understanding that
perhaps changing course is necessary, or that in the future,
when you come again to a crossroads, you'll do better
to choose another route.
While we may be uncomfortable thinking about coercion
as part of a relationship, it is something we need
to consider in our pursuit of humane, loving
treatment of a creature in our care. At times, we
may have no option but to coerce the dog's compliance.
But even in those moments where we cannot fully honor
another being's complete freedom, we do need
to honor his refusal as a valuable communication that will
be taken into consideration and may influence our own
actions. If we are going to use coercion-however
gently-then let us do so with awareness, lest it become
both justified and comfortable for us, perhaps leading to a
complacency we ought not to feel. Complacent, we may
stop seeking-always, relentlessly, in the name of
love-for ways to engage a dog's voluntary
cooperation without the need for force; such ways often do
exist, though they may require a far greater
investment of ourselves. If we are unwilling
to invest ourselves to achieve a more humane end, we need
to be honest with ourselves about this, not rationalize our
behavior as necessary. Coercion is a slippery
slope, and in whatever varying degrees we bring it
to bear, it permits (though does not guarantee) the
existence of cruelty. So we need to tread very
carefully and be very clear about which side of the fence we
are on: Are we persuading or coercing? Coercion
may be inevitable and a part of life, but it need not
equal cruelty, especially if we are willing
to keep our eyes clear so that we can truly see the
dog.
What happens if we mistake a nonessential
for an essential? One would hope that there's nothing more
at stake than some wasted time, and a dog's mind that
now contains a bit of interesting but relatively
unimportant trivia. Of course, if that is the
case, we may have proven James Thurber's
point: "While man has sometimes succeeded in
dragging the dog down to his level, the dog has
only occasionally succeeded in raising man to his
level of sagacity."
Unfortunately, if we mistake nonessential
for essential, we may do

more than simply waste our time and the dog's. We
may be willing to justify the use of force in
foolish, frivolous and quite possibly unfair
ways. Because a living being will pay for our mistakes,
we need to think long and hard about what we consider
important. Assignment of relative value in
our lives can easily go askew. We may
assign great importance to things that help us gloss
over sad or empty places in ourselves, and clutch
these things (ideas, possessions, religion, people,
animals, work and more) to us with fierceness, holding on
at almost any cost. The risk of cruelty runs
high any time we shield the bare, naked ladies of
our soul with another living being, be that a man,
woman, child or dog. Perhaps saddest and most ironic
is this: Of all whom we might hurt as we use
them in some way to shield or soothe ourselves, the dog
is the only one who would stand unflinching before our
darkest secrets and most painful wounds and love us
still, forgiving us again and again for being human.

in search of soulful coherence
Shall we make a new rule of life from tonight: always
to try to be
a little kinder than is necessary?
I . barrie

it is sad that we are willing TO ASK "How hard
should I hit the dog?" It is sad that incoherent
philosophies go unchallenged, but until we can
clarify for ourselves what it is that we think and feel and
therefore how we shall act, we cannot raise much protest.
How then do we begin? As Philip Greven
writes in
Spare the Child:
"We need to create for ourselves charts and maps, however
flawed or inadequate they might initially be, so
that we can find our way through this maze of punishments that
stretch back in time as far as we can see." We have
to demand coherence from ourselves, congruence in our actions,
words and deeds. We have to be, if we claim to be
our dogs' best friends, the kind of friend we would like for
ourselves.
However sincere and honorable in our intentions,
mistakes are inevitable. Though we can try to live
a life that is unfailingly in agreement with our
deepest desire to be fair and humane, we are
only human. Set against the broad background of
love and respect, our mistakes may sting, but they
also offer a chance to correct our course, to learn more,

to accept the grace of forgiveness. Though
always miserable with my mistakes, I have learned not
to throw them away like something foul to be discarded as quickly
as possible. Instead, I embrace them, sifting through
the unpleasant layers until at last I find
what lies at the heart of all my errors: a
small gem of self-knowledge.
While working on this book, we were blessed by the arrival
of Badger, an adolescent Labrador/chow cross that many
might label a problem dog. His owner had grown
afraid of him, and it was easy to see why. Pushed
to do something he did not want to do, Badger would
physically resist, using his nearly eighty pounds
to good effect as he pulled away, leaped up or
pushed with stiff legs at an insistent person. If
the person persisted-trying, for example, to get the
dog outside and hooked on his tether-Badger would
grow still, his lip twitching in the beginnings of a snarl.
Pushed a bit further, he'd reveal more teeth,
offering a startling display of white against his dark
muzzle. And pushed further still, he'd make an
openmouthed gesture toward the offending hand.
If he deemed it necessary, he would firmly grab a
hand or arm, never breaking skin, never even leaving a
vague welt, but with the pressure of his jaws and a
steady look in his eyes, he'd give the clear
impression that if forced to really bite you, he just
might. He had never yet hurt anyone, but at some
point, it was possible that he might feel that he
needed to bite in order to make his point.
Though it would have been easy to do as others already had and
label Badger as "aggressive," the truth of who
Badger is as a dog was much more complicated than that.
But our descriptions of dogs do not usually
encompass the fullness of both the light and the dark.
Labels tend to exclude all but the quality or
set of qualities they are attempting
to describe. I am endlessly bemused by how quickly
we leap to label others (something I am as guilty
of as anyone else), and yet what we long for from
others is an acceptance and recognition of all that
we are, not merely that which fits within a label. We
resent being pigeonholed in neat ways that exclude
the fullness of who we are, even the seemingly
contradictory facets of ourselves that reside
merrily side by side in the same mind: the

brusque football player who serenely
knits, the cynical parole officer who breeds
canaries and finches, the avid deer hunter who
steadfastly refuses to shoot rabbits even when they
destroy his garden. Badger was a dog with some
unpleasant habitual responses to certain
situations, but he was also much more than that. If we would
know another being on an intimate level, we need
to allow for and even deliberately create room in our
own minds and hearts for the contradictions and
juxtapositions that make each of us unique though
perhaps also maddening or puzzling. If we see nothing
more than can be neatly contained with a
label, the fullness of any individual light will
never be able to shine, at least not on us.
Badger was much more than a dog who had learned that the
threat of biting was an effective way of
communicating his confusion, frustration and resentment.
He was also loving, funny, forgiving, tolerant of
other animals, deeply intelligent and most of
all, a dog who wanted nothing quite so much as the
opportunity to be with or near us whatever we were
doing. This was not a dog who would simply become
aggressive for no reason-in face, unless
triggered in very specific ways, he was remarkable for
just how easygoing and pleasant he was. And
there was no joy in his dental displays, just an
exasperated reluctance to have to make his point clear.
I was sure that some attention, exercise and clear,
consistent rules were going to eliminate Badger's
need to threaten. I was also sure that conflict was
inevitable as we learned about each other.
Our first conflict with Badger arose on the very first
night. Having had him for less than six hours, it
seemed prudent to have him spend the night in a crate
next to our bed, an arrangement that made it clear
he was part of the family and also kept him safe and
unable to make any mistakes while we slept.
Though nearly eighty pounds, Badger was-as we
kept reminding ourselves-just a big puppy in terms of
what he knew, and we needed to treat him as we would
any untrained pup and not provide more freedom or
privileges than he had earned.
To us, putting Badger in a comfortably bedded crate
just an arm's length from my pillow seemed quite fair.
He was, after all, well accustomed to a crate.
But that was also the underlying problem. Our perspective
was that a crate was a necessary safety, and we had the
additional knowledge that Badger would be crated as little as
possible; given our at-home, on-the-farm

lifestyle, that meant very little indeed.
Badger's experience was that stepping into a crate was just
the beginning of a very long and lonely day-his owner had
worked a full-time job. Little surprise then that
having enjoyed more freedom and excitement in his first
night with us than he had ever known in his entire
life, Badger was unwilling to give it up, bracing
himself as if we were trying to push him over a cliff
instead of simply guiding him into a crate.
Fortunately, he was rather taken with the tasty treats we
offered, and without thinking it through, he followed the handful
of treats we tossed into the crate.
Swallowing the goodies, he turned to face me and
pushed his nose against the crate door, dismay
crossing his face when he realized he was locked
in. He stood for a long moment and then lay down with a
deep sigh, his eyes still on my face. In that
thoughtful, considering gaze, I could see an
intelligence that would not as readily sell out for a mess
of pottage again. Sure enough, Badger proved
to be the kind of dog who was an acute observer with a
prodigious memory and the ability to sit back and
consider a situation before acting. Aware of the
potential conflicts and committed to doing what was best
for our long-term relationship, both John
and I were ready, armed with patience, the necessary time,
delicious treats and a soft hand in the collar to ask
and guide. Though it might take a few extra
minutes, though there were inevitable moments where our
requests outstripped his agreement and he would begin
to mouth our hands or arm in warning (gently, always)
Badger eventually ended up where we needed him to be,
and we heaped praise on his head.
always darkest before dawn
What do they say about patience? That you become aware
of needing it only when you run out of it? I ran out of
patience for Badger about two weeks after his
arrival, on an icy morning when, with less than
two hours of sleep under my belt, the dogs let
me know that they needed to go out. Tired, cold and wishing
I lived with African violets and not dogs, I
stumbled downstairs to make sure that Badger and
puppy Bird actually made it all the way
outside. Bleary eyed, I offered praise for
well-placed puddles (it's hard to sound genuinely
pleased when your teeth are chattering wildly) and
headed back to bed, a swirl of happily empty
dogs around me as I climbed the stairs. I
noticed Badger in the crowd of dogs and smiled

to myself as he rounded the corner toward the
bedroom with wagging tail. "He feels right at
home," I told myself, little suspecting how right I
was. By the time I reached the bedroom, I could see
an unwelcome sight in the faint predawn light:
Badger was sprawled across the bed.
With a sigh, I grabbed the dog biscuits, and with an
enthusiasm I did not feel, I began asking all
seven dogs to sit and lie down for their biscuits,
a ploy meant to lure Badger off the bed. He was
willing to leave
the bed in order to get his biscuit, but when I reached
for his collar and tried to guide him toward the crate,
he twisted out of my hand and leaped back into bed.
Annoyed, I reached for him again, and this time he
flipped over on his back, all four legs
wildly punching the air and pushing me away. Long
accustomed to dealing with such shenanigans from dogs, I
expertly reached past his legs toward the collar-and was
met with a display of teeth that gleamed in the predawn
dark. Unafraid but increasingly annoyed, I
tugged on his collar and struggled to get him on his
feet. "Dammit all, Badger, just get in the
crate!"
His response was to grab my arm, and anger flared
up in me. My anger wasn't from pain; his jaws
on my arm didn't hurt in the least. Though there was
pressure that was not to be ignored, Badger was always
precise and well aware of what he was doing, and I
trusted this (though I might not have with another dog).
I was angry because something as simple as getting a
dog into a crate involved such a bloody waste of
time when I was exhausted and cold and all I wanted
was for him to be safe while I slept. This did not
seem to be an impossible request, especially for a
dog who knew perfectly well how to get into a
crate. At that precise moment, focused only
on what I wanted and how I felt and how pissed
off I was by the whole damn thing, I fell a long,
long way. Out of patience and not even a little curious
about Badger's feelings or his point of view, I
was a long way from empathy or fairness and much
closer to the edge of cruelty than I'd been in a
long time.
When we experience the death of curiosity or
patience, empathy is shut down. To be
empathetic, a few conditions are necessary: We are
interested, curious, intrigued by the other's point of