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Train the human, not the dog

2020; Wiley; Volume: 304; Issue: 1 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1002/ar.24513

1932-8494

Jeffrey T. Laitman,

Infant Health and Development

This essay is a mea culpa for the opportunities that I missed with my late dog, Joey. I hope that those who read it will not judge me too harshly. I write this so others will not make the unintentional mistakes that I did. When my son was seven, he expressed his desire to have a dog. Neither my wife nor I had ever had a dog so we were leery about the possibility. Somewhere, I read that I should give my son a written contract describing the rules should he get a dog. Following this, I diligently prepared a six-page, itemized contract clearly describing our expectations for him should we get said dog. This included: clean ups, walking times, his need to maintain grades, limitations on visitors, what mom and dad would not have to do, on and on. In retrospect, the document was overwhelming for a little boy (my son was a friendly, very kind kid with floppy red-hair who looked like Opie from “The Andy Griffith Show” for those old enough to recall). I remember the “Dog Contract” ended with: “Should these items not be met we retain the right to return the dog. We will, however, keep you.” I thought that this would give him some comfort and that I was being a good dad. My wife is a psychiatrist (this is important for our story) and when she saw the document, she tried to send me for therapy. “You gave a seven year old a legal contract!?” she said (although “said” is really the wrong word given the volume of the communication) “You'll traumatize him!” Well, ok, maybe I did overdo it; I probably did not need to have it drafted by my attorney and put on legal paper, but I thought that I was teaching my son something. After reading the contract, which was about the same size as the U.S. Constitution, my son decided that he did not want the dog. Instead of a dog, he became interested in Star War figures, mostly taking them apart and then seeing how quickly he could put the pieces correctly back together. He is now a head and neck surgeon so I guess it all turned out OK, as he is very fast in putting people back together (he still has never gotten a dog.) Fast-forward 4 years. I got a frantic call from my wife (the psychiatrist) telling me that I had to get home immediately and before my daughter got home from school; her pet bird died and I had to be there. My wife's office is 3 min from our home and I work at Mount Sinai in the middle of Manhattan an hour to a week away depending on traffic. “Why can't you go,” I asked, “you're the psychiatrist and, besides, you always tell me that I say the “wrong thing”? “Just go. Period.” (I later learned that my wife and daughter had already planned what would happen next.) I got home a few minutes before my daughter arrived. As she bounded up to her room, I intercepted her on the landing. “Sweetheart, I have some bad news. Flash (her bird; a $9.95 parakeet that my wife spent almost $1,000 on in doctor's bills—I kid you not; remember she is a psychiatrist who is concerned with my daughter's psychological ‘well-being’) died. I'm so sorry” (I was really empathetic.) “Oh, gee that's terrible! Dad” said my cute little pumpkin with a tear in her eye. “Can I have a dog? Please, please.” “Uh, ok,” I stammered in response. How could I say otherwise; she just lost her bird! (My little pumpkin, sweet as she seems, can be tough as nails, and usually knows and gets what she wants. She is an Assistant District Attorney now—go figure—and I would not want to be on the table opposite her!) The Dog: So now, we were to get a dog. My son asked where my daughter's contract was and I bought him some new Star Wars toys. We now had to choose a dog. As an academic, much of my world comes from books so I bought one on dog breeds and decided I liked a Rottweiler. To paraphrase the descriptions, they essentially said: “A very loyal, family dog and specifically devoted to the master; may occasionally eat a neighbor's child.” Sounded good and would keep the neighbors kids off the lawn. I told my wife and daughter of my choice. I also mentioned that I saw the dog in the “Omen” movies and they seemed very protective (they were guarding the devil's child in the movies); given that it is a German breed I thought we could call him “Adolf.” In retrospect, the latter were probably not great selling points. My wife told me that I was mentally disturbed, that I desperately needed therapy, and that we were not getting a Rottweiler. My daughter and her then showed me a picture of the dog we were to get—a little white thing called a “West Highland Terrier” or “Westie” (so much for keeping the neighbor kids off the lawn). I said it is white and will show dirt. They both shook their heads and started the process. To make a long story short, we got the Westie and my daughter, and avid New York Yankees fan, named him “Joltin' Joe DiMaggio” or “Joey” for short. He was a purebred whose grandfather had won some big thing at a major Dog Show. He cost me more than my first two cars put together (Figure 1). Now we get to the core of the problems and why I am writing this essay. When we got the puppy, I did not have the vaguest idea what to do. I knew nothing, absolutely nothing, about canine needs or their psyche, or differences amongst and between breeds. Now, I am not a mean or thoughtless person (I hope), just one who was completely ignorant about the new, warm, living being that was in our home. He was a “pet,” correct?; property, an item that I thought would follow my instructions and follow the rules. My children, particularly my daughter (son was busy taking Hans Solo apart) could be difficult, but mostly seemed to follow our rules (at least when we were there.) What about Joey? I have always tried to be a dutiful parent. If you asked my children to assess me (please do not) they would probably say: “a little odd; often clueless; often smelled funny (I teach gross anatomy); tries very hard).” As is often said, children do not come with instructions; I probably did most things wrong. One thing I tried to do, however, was always be with them. If there was a professional meeting, I took them; if there was a Yankees game, I never went without them; if there was a sport, I coached their teams. I tried to emulate my own parents and my wife's who were always there and involved. For Joey, however, I had no reference points. We had never co-habitated with a dog. What to do, how to share, how to act? I was clueless. From the start, there were issues. At some point, we were told, or my wife read in one of numerous books, that we should put the dog in a crate at night in another room. Downstairs. Away from us. So we did this. While I am clearly not a dog expert, this had to be one of the most unnatural, stupid things we could have done. What I have subsequently learned about domestic dogs (much from the Guest Editor of this Special Issue, Tim Smith) is that dogs are not really an independent being; they are part of a whole. They are as one arm of an octopus, an essential element of a larger form. They must be a part of a “pack” to be healthy and psychologically balanced. They must always know their place, function, and ranking in the hierarchy in order for them to be a maximally functioning dog. Separating a dog from its pack is the worst thing one can do. I know that some canine experts will disagree with this observation, but I have found their arguments to often be based upon the “human” perspective, that is, how to “train” the dog to be most obedient and conforming to what we humans want. Indeed, that was the perch I initially came from. My experience—and what I have learned of their biology and history (read this special issue!)—has subsequently led me to believe otherwise. Joey was a strong-willed pooch; something we later learned was a characteristic of Westies. He did not give-in easily and fought for his point of view. He did this with his sleeping arrangement, complaining, and calling constantly. After a while, we relented and had him move upstairs to sleep with the family. Sometimes with us, or in a small bed we got for him, or often with my daughter who became his closest pack-mate. The instant that he was with his pack, he was fine. He knew his “rights,” what he needed. Joey bonded immediately with my wife, my son (who was now finishing high school and then away in college) and, especially, my daughter. He was extraordinary with them; a constant, dutiful, companion and protector. Joey was particularly close to my daughter; often inseparable. It is interesting that Joey and my daughter had very similar personalities, both being independent and a bit snarky if they did not get their way. It was a pleasure watching Joey with my wife and children. All knew their place and relationship. The problem was with me. I never understood my place or role with Joey. In retrospect, I think he was trying very hard to teach me my place in our new universe but my ignorance precluded any success. I assumed that Joey was my property and would honor my needs and my commands. I did pay for him (a small fortune, but let us not go there) and I guess I figured he should be appreciative for all I did. Nothing clicked between us. I tried training him like it showed in books: sit, stand, rollover. He looked at me like I was nuts and would then go and poop on my side of the bed. Never anywhere else, only where I would walk. Sometimes he would alter his routine and eat my shoes, or my briefcase, or my belts and suspenders! Life was a constant moan! Why would this dog not leave me alone! One of the few things Joey and I agreed upon was food. I really thought his dog food looked awful; who would eat those dry lumps? So I would share whatever I ate. If I went to McDonalds, I would get him a cheeseburger and fries (he did not like the ketchup). I would give him a slice of pizza or an egg roll. Seemed fair. The end result, however, was that whenever I went to the refrigerator Joey was there, waiting for food. When my wife learned of my feeding habits she was aghast: “You're feeding him, what! You're going to kill him!” The vet was not as nice. I can remember one of his comments: “You actually have degrees from Yale?” When I tried to remedy the situation by not giving him cheese slices or leftovers from the fridge, he started urinating in front of the refrigerator in protest. We sent him to a camp in the Pocono Mountains in New Jersey to teach him not to urinate in the house or poop on my side of the bed. After a few thousands of dollars (that's right!), the trainers brought him back and explained that he is great and will no longer show these behaviors. As soon as they left, Joey went to the fridge and urinated. That night he left me the usual present on my side of the bed. I have a particular chair in the den that I like to sit in. It is mine. Period. Joey would make sure to be in it when I got home and then not move. Surely, he knew it was my chair! Why did we have to have a fight every night over possession of my chair! It got more complicated when friends would visit. If any sat in my chair, Joey would urinate on their pants leg. This action always embarrassed me (although I did like it when he did it to one particular brother-in-law who always told me “he knows dogs”). It was later explained to me (by noted whale expert, animal behaviorist, and dog lover Joy Reidenberg) that Joey was “protecting” me, being, as she put it, my “wing dog.” I was Joey's alpha, his role model, and he was hard-wired to protect me (and my chair!). Unfortunately, I just did not know how to act as his alpha, or show him appreciation and respect in return. One aspect of domestic dogs that I have learned is essential for them is that they have a job, a designated role. Guard dogs guard; pointers point; sheep dogs shepherd sheep and so on. No great revelation here. While it is obvious that such working dogs will do that which they are bred for, it has become apparent to me that all dogs—whether it be a Doberman guarding a junk yard or a “house dog” without a specific task—must actually have tasks that they see as essential and necessary for the good of their pack. I did not realize this with Joey and so never fostered such. I did see how magnificent he was, however, when he took on a protective and nurturing job once when my daughter was badly injured in a car accident. She damaged some ribs and bruised her head and arms and was bedridden for a time. Joey took on the role of protector and companion; he never left her side. It was quite a sight to see; he would station himself by the foot of her bed so no one else would come near, or move to nuzzle her when she would moan. Once, we brought her a hamburger and fries and left it by her bed table as she was sleeping. Joey never disturbed it, but when I went into her room to check on her, and went to take a fry, he growled and pushed my hand away in an obvious message that this “was not mine to have.” Joey died in 2013, way too soon. The ultimate cause was a congenital renal problem that affected urine output and his urinary tract (this may have been related to his frequent urination). In looking back, I believe that his death was also in part due to psychological factors relating to his forced separation from his pack, that is, us. I had been away at a board meeting (of The Anatomical Record, no less) in Japan where I took ill. After a stint at Tokyo General Hospital, I was sent home to be operated on at my own hospital, Mount Sinai. I had lost a lot of weight and looked worn and ill, and Joey was quite agitated when he saw me. Further, he could not jump on me as he usually did as I had a catheter and other tubes. My appearance clearly unnerved him (as it did the rest of my family). The following day, my daughter also left for a college term abroad in London. The day after that I was admitted to the hospital and, expecting a hospital stay and surgery, we had to board Joey so my wife could be with me, and as my children were not home. Joey became ill when being boarded and, in retrospect, must also have suffered from a powerful psychological trauma as his entire pack was removed from him. I do not know about the underlying chemistry of canine depression, but I cannot imagine anything much more powerful than seeing your “alpha” (as dysfunctional in that role as I was) looking ill and having your other family members all disappear instantly. Within a few days, Joey took ill, and no measures that were tried were effective. My wife was able to be with him at the end but I could not as I was too ill to travel. The ironic parallels still haunt me. Joey taught me a great deal about the need to try and understand someone else's world. My preconceptions and selfish focus precluded me from going beyond myself. The mandate to do this, given to me by my dog, will not be forgotten. I also learned that a dog is not a “pet.” With no disrespect to other animals, a dog is not a gerbil, a turtle, or even an adorable parakeet. Neither is it a cat, or a horse, or a cow, or any other animal that has come under human domestication. All these species have played a significant part in human evolution; they are not, however, dogs. Domesticated canids, our dogs, have a privileged place in our world (see Smith, 2020, this volume). As has been recently shown (e.g., reviews in Shipman, 2015; Shipman, 2020, this volume; Patrik, Laznickova-Galetova, Sablin, & Germonpre, 2020, this volume) dogs have co-evolved with humans for tens of thousands of years. This symbiotic relationship has altered both our evolution and theirs. Indeed, recent anatomical studies have suggested that dog anatomy has been modified to accommodate dog-human facial signaling, again speaking to our extraordinary relationship (e.g., Kaminski, Waller, Diogo, Hartstone-Rose, & Burrows, 2019; Burrows, this volume.) When we decide to share our home and world with a dog, we are rekindling this time-honored and most special relationship. With this relationship comes, responsibilities and obligations. Rewatching old Lassie movies did not prepare me to welcome a new member to my family, one that came with rightful expectations and thousands of years of built-in communication signaling that required proper cues and responses on my part. I largely failed, and for that, I will always be sorry that my ignorance did not allow our time together to be maximized. As I noted at the outset, I write this essay so others will learn from my mistakes. Indeed, we should focus on training ourselves to what our dogs need and worry less about training them to meet our selfish expectations. To my family for all their patience with me, and for trying to teach me how to be a good human to our dog; they were naturals while I was not. Thanks to Timothy Smith and Joy Reidenberg for teaching me a lot about dogs and how to view the world from their perspective; and Blaire Van Valkenberg for teaching me about the anatomy and biology of dogs and other carnivores. And lastly to Joey: you gave me a lot and taught me a lot; I'm sorry that I could not always understand what you were trying to say.