In Dog We Trust
April 2011
© Adam Granger
Recently, we got our first dog, a golden doodle. That's a poodle-golden retriever mix. I'm not sure where that first “d” in doodle comes from: by rights, they should be called golden poodles. I think it was added to make men feel silly when they say it. I know guys who have rottweilers named King who wouldn't be seen in the same dog park with a golden doodle named Molly, but I'm not one those guys. We bought Molly from breeders in Montevideo, Minnesota, who delivered her to us at the airport, where they had come to ship Molly's sister to Arizona, and of course we both fell instantly in love with her. We thought Molly would weigh 35 pounds, and she weighs 65. (She auditioned for the role of Paul Bunyon's lap dog in a local theatrical production but was edged out by a hyperthyroid St Bernard.) Having had cats all of my life, dog ownership has been a real eye-opener. Not only had I not had dogs, I was actually a dog disliker: I was the guy who'd come up and grumpily say, “Excuse me. We have a leash law in this town. . . .” Of course, I did a 180 when we got a dog, and now they—and their owners—can do no wrong.
About twenty years BD (Before Dog), a friend stayed with me at my cabin up north. He brought along, uninvited, a big, stinky, ill-behaved mess of a hound who, my friend announced, needed all of us to train him. At the time, I was quite put out by this forced application of in loco caninus parentis, but now I without hesitation ask visitors to our house not to pet or otherwise acknowledge Molly if she's barking. It takes a village.
The first thing I learned about dogs is that—and this is an accurate statistic—97% of owners of female dogs name them Molly. The second thing I learned is that their ears really do fly up when something piques their interest. Okay, not as high as Snoopy's, but nevertheless. I assume that this is to allow them to hear better.
And they really do cock their heads when they're puzzled, I'm at a loss as to why. My best guess is that it's something television dogs were trained to do because it was cutely humanoid, and then other dogs learned it from watching television. That is the most logical explanation. So, okay, dogs cock their heads because humans do it, but why do humans do it? To shift the parallax? Literally to jog the brain? To change the stereo mix the ears are receiving?
Our household has taken on a distinctly canid feel, with dog dishes in the kitchen and dog toys strewn everywhere. Because the “toys” here are dog bones and little voodoo-doll effigies of squirrels, the place feels less like Toys “R” Us after a tornado and more like an abattoir on a busy day. And yes, I know we're supposed to take her toys away when it's not time to play, but, really, what else does she have?
Walks are completely different now than they were BD. Our St Paul neighborhood has an arkful of dogs and dog owners, and now people we meet on our walks are referred to as Rex's owner, or Molly's owner, even in cases where we knew their names before. Oh, and if I were single and lookin', as they say back home, I'd borrow somebody's cute little puppy on a nice spring afternoon and go hang out at a dog park. 'Nuff said.
Molly casually watches everything that goes on, ramping up to orange alert if there is any reason to. She'll flop on the floor and move only her eyes to look at whomever is speaking. She recognizes the mail carrier and the FedEx man as being people from whom she will get nothing and who mean us no harm, so she ignores them. Guitar students always get the Full Bark Treatment, even though Molly sees them every week.
Her hearing is astounding. I can be two floors and four rooms away and she'll hear the rustling of my winter coveralls, which means walkies. She can be visiting her friend Molly two blocks away and hear me crinkling the food bag. And this through those huge dumb floppy ears.
There is spirited debate about the intelligence of dogs. And, of course, it is claimed that some breeds are smarter than others, and so there's further debate about that. Frankly, all dogs seem pretty dumb to me (please don't leave this article out where your dog can see it). Maybe, to paraphrase, they're dumb like a fox: if Molly pretends not to know her name, or not to understand commands like “fetch” and “sit”, then she doesn't have to come when she's called or do anything else she doesn't want to do.
Our Molly—Molly Number 138,766,801—is four and a half now, and I've got to say that it's been pretty darned swell owning a dog. Our affection for her notwithstanding, if we had it to do over, we'd get a rescue dog: we've met lots of folks who have great RDs, and besides, they need to be, well, rescued. And a dog is a dog is a dog; they pretty much all seem likeable and they pretty much all want to be your buddy. As my aunt Minnie used to say, “It's a poor dog that is not worth the whistling.” Dear Aunt Minnie: She was never the same after her beloved dachshund, Molly, met her end running around a tree.
About twenty years BD (Before Dog), a friend stayed with me at my cabin up north. He brought along, uninvited, a big, stinky, ill-behaved mess of a hound who, my friend announced, needed all of us to train him. At the time, I was quite put out by this forced application of in loco caninus parentis, but now I without hesitation ask visitors to our house not to pet or otherwise acknowledge Molly if she's barking. It takes a village.
The first thing I learned about dogs is that—and this is an accurate statistic—97% of owners of female dogs name them Molly. The second thing I learned is that their ears really do fly up when something piques their interest. Okay, not as high as Snoopy's, but nevertheless. I assume that this is to allow them to hear better.
And they really do cock their heads when they're puzzled, I'm at a loss as to why. My best guess is that it's something television dogs were trained to do because it was cutely humanoid, and then other dogs learned it from watching television. That is the most logical explanation. So, okay, dogs cock their heads because humans do it, but why do humans do it? To shift the parallax? Literally to jog the brain? To change the stereo mix the ears are receiving?
Our household has taken on a distinctly canid feel, with dog dishes in the kitchen and dog toys strewn everywhere. Because the “toys” here are dog bones and little voodoo-doll effigies of squirrels, the place feels less like Toys “R” Us after a tornado and more like an abattoir on a busy day. And yes, I know we're supposed to take her toys away when it's not time to play, but, really, what else does she have?
Walks are completely different now than they were BD. Our St Paul neighborhood has an arkful of dogs and dog owners, and now people we meet on our walks are referred to as Rex's owner, or Molly's owner, even in cases where we knew their names before. Oh, and if I were single and lookin', as they say back home, I'd borrow somebody's cute little puppy on a nice spring afternoon and go hang out at a dog park. 'Nuff said.
Molly casually watches everything that goes on, ramping up to orange alert if there is any reason to. She'll flop on the floor and move only her eyes to look at whomever is speaking. She recognizes the mail carrier and the FedEx man as being people from whom she will get nothing and who mean us no harm, so she ignores them. Guitar students always get the Full Bark Treatment, even though Molly sees them every week.
Her hearing is astounding. I can be two floors and four rooms away and she'll hear the rustling of my winter coveralls, which means walkies. She can be visiting her friend Molly two blocks away and hear me crinkling the food bag. And this through those huge dumb floppy ears.
There is spirited debate about the intelligence of dogs. And, of course, it is claimed that some breeds are smarter than others, and so there's further debate about that. Frankly, all dogs seem pretty dumb to me (please don't leave this article out where your dog can see it). Maybe, to paraphrase, they're dumb like a fox: if Molly pretends not to know her name, or not to understand commands like “fetch” and “sit”, then she doesn't have to come when she's called or do anything else she doesn't want to do.
Our Molly—Molly Number 138,766,801—is four and a half now, and I've got to say that it's been pretty darned swell owning a dog. Our affection for her notwithstanding, if we had it to do over, we'd get a rescue dog: we've met lots of folks who have great RDs, and besides, they need to be, well, rescued. And a dog is a dog is a dog; they pretty much all seem likeable and they pretty much all want to be your buddy. As my aunt Minnie used to say, “It's a poor dog that is not worth the whistling.” Dear Aunt Minnie: She was never the same after her beloved dachshund, Molly, met her end running around a tree.
