The threads that bind us
2020; Wiley; Volume: 304; Issue: 1 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1002/ar.24380
ISSN1932-8494
Autores Tópico(s)Geographies of human-animal interactions
Resumo"HUMANE, gentle, kind. …Lat. humanus" – Skeat, 1884 One day as I walked alone, a friend pulled alongside me in her jeep and spoke to me through her open passenger window. She said, "someone wants to see you." She edged her car forward and the tinted back window came down to reveal a furred face, and the eyes of the dog spoke to me: It's you!! This interaction lasted mere seconds. Of course, I fussed over her dog Dewey, and complimented his manners and his fine collar. My friend drove away. Here is what amazes me: before this day, I had never met Dewey. Why did this seem like such a familiar experience? I would like a replay of that moment, but slower this time. This interaction included reciprocal facial expressions, each of which takes a fraction of a section. Did Dewey or I initiate the interaction? This seems so crucial. Locking eyes. It is what dogs and humans do more than most of our closest relatives. Some authors argue that humans are uniquely and anatomically adapted for eye contact (Kobayashi and Kohshima, 2001). The great apes have some similarity to humans in patterns of directed gazes (Gómez, 1996; Liebal, Waller, Burrows, & Slocombe, 2014), but humans stand out from all other primates in the relatively prolonged nature of eye contact (Liebal et al., 2014). And dogs? As in primates, eye contact can mean many things to a dog. But dogs (like wolves) routinely make contact with conspecifics and have fur markings which draw attention to the eyes (analogous to white sclera of humans) (Ueda, Kumagai, Otaki, Yamaguchi, & Kohshima, 2014). It is an important means of group communication, while in other canids, body or tail postures may accomplish similar functions (see discussion in Shipman, 2015). Unlike wolves, dogs are innately responsive to eye contact from infancy onward (Miklósi & Topál, 2013). One or both of us, that is, dogs or humans, evolved the capacity to meet the gaze of the other (Miklósi et al., 2003), and we endeavored onward in an amazing mutualistic state of symbiosis. Coppinger and Coppinger (2016) estimate that humans have "reproductive control" of only 15% of dogs of the world; most dogs do not live with humans as "pets." If this estimate is even remotely close, the vast majority of dogs live their own lives apart from us. They may have scavenged in our wake for tens of thousands of years. We might guess they have long been our noisy neighbors, but shy upon our approach, and at times dropping by unannounced to peer at us. Did the domestic dog come from such an unruly bunch? While the particulars are still much debated, the domestic dog may have undergone stages of selection prior to a very close human association (vonHoldt & Driscoll, 2017). First, humans may have developed a tolerance to wolves with relatively low levels of aggression living in proximity. Primitive dogs may have lived in a state of commensalism (symbiosis in which only one organism benefits) along the margins of human groups, perhaps scavenging, and perhaps being occasionally provisioned. What followed was an experiment in mutualism (symbiosis in which both organisms benefit) that may have spanned millennia. While the vast majority of Canis familiaris may live at the edges of humankind, and a small percentage cohabit with human family groups, these two groups of dogs are not sharply divided. This may be the inevitable result of bonds between humankind and an r-selected species. We are overwhelmed by the waves (litters) of pups appearing at our doorsteps, in our farms, on our streets. Call it the messy margins of mutualism. Here, feral dogs emerge. Here, we adopt dogs. And here, we devised shelters to house the homeless dogs. It was at the messy margins that my son discovered his spirit of volunteerism. At a local shelter for unwanted dogs, cats, and rabbits, I was his required adult partner. We took the evening shift, giving dogs their last walk before bedtime. Many of these dogs took an immediate shine to my son. They regarded him as a giant playmate; a reared-up shove was his typical canine welcome. He had to learn defensive postures to these enthusiastic greetings. One of his favorite dogs was there because of, how to say it?, a big breech of etiquette. He killed the family goat. (You can re-read that sentence. It still says it.) Can a domestic dog survive such a misstep? This dog was not considered a lost cause; his owners dropped him at the shelter. Should I trust this formidable animal with my own son? Part of that calculation was made for me by the behavioral specialists at the shelter, who considered this dog to be "intermediate" challenge for volunteer dog walkers. Moreover, every interaction with this dog confirmed his affinity for human contact—a fine friend for my son (Figure 1). Now there are more volunteer dog walkers in my family. Three of us—my son (now an adult), my wife, and I—take turns joining a team of volunteers to walk dogs. Right now, there are so many dogs that two or three of us may go for the evening dog walk shifts. Shiloh pulls hard and needs to run. On the return from playground 2, he is more relaxed and pulling less. Monty does not know right from wrong yet. Right now he is tearing a hole in my wife's jacket as she struggles to walk him. Harley is oddly obsessed with licking my son's ears. Nikki's doggy IQ is off the charts. She needs containers to prod open with her snout, and puzzles with hidden treats. Montel is guarded, and may not trust easily. But if you spend time in his kennel on your knees, voicing encouragement, you would find he likes to have his huge head scratched as he leans against you. Welcome furry friends. Free food and health care found here. There are no seizures here… no stones…no ulcers… no wounds left untended. No one will be cast aside. I am half afraid we will be overrun. Yet there is no escaping it: this is both our home and my daughter's shelter for those that were once cast out—an epileptic cat—a one-eyed guinea pig. It is a shelter and a clinic. And I seem to have a place in my daughter's clinic. I have a talent for administering pills to cats. We are also the team that takes them to the vet. Here, the word "humane" deserves mention and some historical context. The first wide use of the word may have been extended to humankind, specifically the cause of saving or resuscitating drowning seamen. The Royal Humane Society was formed for this purpose in 1774 in Britain (Moniz, 2016). Not long later, however, the "humane movement" was extended to nonhuman animals. In 1824, the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (later, the Royal SPCA) was formed (Ritvo, 2002). The extension toward nonhumans may be the primary association of the word humane for many of us today. Sometimes, at the veterinary clinic, I sit among dogs and cats and their humans, and I wonder whether we are overly obsessed with our pets? Or are we here trying to be our best selves? Should we ever argue with genuinely humane impulses? Blest be the tie that binds…. (John Fawcett 1792). Above are the words of an old hymn that you may know from school days, or, from a play by Thornton Wilder. They denote a divine importance of our attachments to one another. Would you cast a jaded eye at this sentiment, perhaps thinking of friends or family that have drifted away? Certainly, modern life has proven these ties to be easily severed. At least, we must admit the ties may become frayed. Well then, rather being bound to one another by strong cords, perhaps envision mere threads. Yet these thread-like attachments, though entirely breakable, summon us. If we try to withdraw, we feel a tug from one or more threads. It wakes us in the middle of the night, or interrupts our concentration while on task. For a species such as ourselves, this web of attachments must at one time have meant our very survival. We have ample evidence of the cohesive group living by early modern humans (and their Neanderthal cousins). Young and aged alike are buried at encampment sites of early humans (Watson, 1970)—a testament to the strong selective pressure holding clans together. And today humans still feel the tugs of these attachments, whether we think we need them or not. Astonishingly, at the ends of our threads may be those we have lost forever—we may feel tugs from mere phantoms. What a powerful and cruel adaptation. Perhaps more incredible still, for many of us, at the end of these threads may reside another species, living in our very homes, or long gone (Figure 2). Back to Dewey. Who gave the first signal? Perhaps Dewey's eye twitched almost imperceptibly, an "eyebrow" invitation, fishing for an appropriate response. It is argued that dogs evolved this very capacity to manipulate us (Kaminski, Waller, Diogo, Adam Hartstone-Rose, & Burrows, 2019). But I cannot rule out that I telegraphed: Hey! Dog person…right here. Imagine a "tinted-window" dog interaction test: my friend driving Dewey around wearing a collar-mounted video camera, pulling up alongside people with their own head-mounted cameras, waiting to see that someone. My neighborhood is the perfect testing site. And now, another walk with my dog. I will cater to her whims to walk, sniff, or socialize. This is her time to do dog things. And while we walk, this commentary composes itself in my head. I think I see you walking my way. Before we exchange pleasantries, someone wants to see you (Figure 3). Go ahead, lock eyes, and fuss over her. You know you want to. My thanks to Scott Miller and my family for reading and commenting on earlier versions of this article, and Adam Miklósi for an enjoyable discussion about canine–human interaction tests.
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