by Ted Kerasote
Oskar Pfungst had chipped away at this very question, at least in regard to the horse. After noting that his experiment proved that Clever Hans was incapable of independent thought, Pfungst lamented the fact that horses had been dumbed down through domestication, their world reduced to dark narrow stalls—quite literally a box. "Presumably, however," he went on to reflect, "it might be possible, under conditions and with methods of instruction more in accord with the life-needs of the horse, to awaken in a fuller measure those mental activities which would be called into play to meet those needs."
The same can be said about how we meet the life-needs of dogs whose world has become no larger than an apartment or a fenced yard. These dogs aren't necessarily stupid, but they don't have the opportunity to get their minds out of their box. Given a more natural environment—daily walks in a nearby park with other dogs is often sufficient—they can become like humans exposed to a good liberal arts education: They learn the discipline of thinking as well as mannerly discourse with their peers.
Blessed with a large education from an early age, Merle seemed to quickly grasp the rewards of flexibility. In the case of his singing, he decided that if he was going to be part of a group that was doing something he enjoyed, he needed to change his tune. One might argue that this was a limited sort of flexibility, and that he was simply observing the traditions of his human pack—one member of which, myself, would allow him to sing at the top of his lungs at home, while others would shout at him to go away. Being a pack animal, he thus modified his behavior accordingly, very much like Elizabeth Marshall Thomas's dog Pearl, who chose to eat standing in the morning with her new pack and lying down at night in memory of her old one.
Yet when something didn't appeal to Merle, he would never follow another dog's lead. Despite his obvious Lab blood, and even though he watched countless dogs play toss and fetch, he wouldn't change his mind about retrieving. If you held a ball, a stick, or a retriever dummy under his nose, his expression would turn sweetly intractable. Pulling his head back from the proffered object, he'd stare at you with bright and challenging eyes, every ounce of him saying, "Thank you, but I'm not interested."
No matter how much you would try to cajole him, employing the usual kissy noises that attract dogs so well (they mimic the high-pitched squeaks of rodents), he remained unshaken in his belief that such games were exactly that—games. Instead, he applied himself to the real—the real, somehow, always being connected to filling his stomach. Why should he respond to a person's ersatz rodent noise, his logic seemed to go, when he could chase and kill real ground squirrels? Why should he fetch a retriever dummy when he could flush and kill real ruffed grouse?
I admired his integrity, though some of my friends found it disconcerting. One young couple, longing for some doggy energy in their lives, borrowed Merle for a day hike. A few hours later they returned him at arm's length. "He caught a grouse," the woman said, a little shocked, "and ate it whole, right in front of our eyes."
His experience with a shotgun going off over his head had apparently not put him off from this form of hunting. However, he never became fixated on birds, the way some highly bred Labs, Pointers, and Setters are. He stayed a generalist and an opportunist, both characteristics of wolves, coyotes, and jackals, wherever they're found.
One day in particular sticks out in my mind as illustrating how these two types of dogs conduct themselves. Merle and I were hiking with the embodiment of the canine specialist: a highly bred gun dog whose raison d'être was hunting upland birds. No one was carrying a gun on this late-summer afternoon, but this dog was nonetheless totally on-task, vacuuming the terrain ahead of us for grouse scent. Dashing this way and that, he went right by a patch of currants.
Merle stopped, twisted his head, and sniffed curiously. He had never smelled currants before. Wading into the patch, he carefully inspected an individual currant by taking several deep breaths of it. Cautiously, he pulled it from its stem with his front incisors and chewed it observantly—unlike how he gobbled food with which he was familiar. I stopped and watched him. Sensing no bitter taste, he glanced at me and gave his tail a wag of endorsement: "This is very good." He then proceeded to nip off currant after currant, something he did the rest of his life whenever he found a patch. He behaved just as a coyote would: curious about the world, loath to pass up anything edible, especially if it contained furaneol, ethyl maltol, and methyl maltol, three compounds found in fruits that most dogs find fragrant and intensely sweet. The relationship between such plants and dogs is symbiotic. The plant gets its seeds spread in the dog's feces; the dog gets some extra calories and a pleasurable taste.
Whether the flashy gun dog's focus on grouse rather than on currants was an example of one type of inheritance overriding another or his specialized training acting in a similar fashion, I cannot say. What soon became obvious to me was that the attributes of specialist and generalist dogs tended to reexpress themselves in people who write about dogs. Some writers see wild dogs as embodiments of general intelligence and adaptability; others perceive domestic dogs as humanity's triumph over unruly nature.
Michael Fox, the veterinarian, bioethicist, wolf researcher, and former vice president of the Humane Society of the United States, is firmly in the camp of the wild dogs. Here is his take on the all-around abilities of the wolf:
The wolf's general alertness, its state of arousal, the exquisite sensitivity of its sense organs of hearing, smell, and sight, and its remarkable agility, dexterity, speed, and stamina demonstrate the phenomenon of natural adaptation....Anyone seeing a wolf move, in its long, open, effortless lope or racing at full speed, or twist and turn on one foot, will admire, if not envy, its agility and coordination. Mind and body are one, totally integrated, and few dogs can match the liquid movements, speed, and stamina of the wolf.
The biologist and sled dog trainer Raymond Coppinger and his wife, Lorna, are just as fervently on the side of the domestic dog:
Unlike the wolf—if we have seen one wolf, we basically have seen them all—dogs are continually interesting. Take any specific behavior and there is a breed of dog that can outperform any wolf. Compared with wolves, sled dogs can run farther, greyhounds can run faster, bloodhounds have a better sense of smell, borzois have more optical overlap and better depth perception. Some would contend that, cognitively speaking, the wolf is smarter. That may be, but we would propose that if it is so smart, why can't we teach one to herd sheep, or fetch a ball, or deliver a bird to hand, or guide a blind person through the crowded streets of a city?
Indeed, the Coppingers go so far as to say, "Any breed of dog behaves with much greater complexity than any wolf."
Having watched thousands of domestic dogs and hundreds of wild wolves—as well as a handful of dogs who, like Merle, have lived physically and psychologically somewhere between the two—I'm not sure that the Coppingers are right. Specialist dogs can be brilliant at their jobs or sports, but, as is the case with some human athletes, mathematicians, or artists, their highly developed skills can leave them unobservant. Data outside their purview doesn't register. And the more proficient they become, the harder it becomes for them to think outside of the box. They become idiot savants.
Merle never followed this narrow career path, and some of my friends thought that this was a loss both for him and for me. By allowing Merle to do what he wanted, they argued, I had wasted his life as a potentially good bird dog and squandered the enjoyment I would have gotten, watching him flush and retrieve.
On the other hand, I never tired of watching him scent elk, chase chiselers, and delicately pick currants with his incisors—all pastimes he chose for himself. Eventually, he enlarged his frugivorous tastes to raspberries and thimbleberries, munching them whenever they were ripe. Oddly, he never liked huckleberries, even when I offered him the plumpest and sweetest of them, freshly plucked from the vine. He would give them a single lick and pull back his head. I couldn't tell if it was their taste or their texture—smooth instead o
f wrinkled—that prompted his indifference. At home, he was just as unpredictable, eating apples and pears but not cantaloupe or bananas. He'd munch carrots enthusiastically and give broccoli an occasional try, yet shun all other vegetables. Though a generalist, he had his preferences. Eventually, he expressed them on most matters, including when he'd accompany me in the car.
At first, as is the case for most dogs, the novelty of a car ride trumped anything he was doing, and he'd never refuse to go along. It didn't take him long, however, to realize that he might end up sitting in the car while I ran errands or went to a meeting. Nonetheless, he continued to leap into the car joyfully, a perfect example of what Samuel Johnson called the "triumph of hope over experience." As he matured, though, he'd sit on the porch and watch what I took along. If I put my briefcase or canvas bag of library books onto the front seat, and nothing else went inside the car or onto its rooftop carrier—no hiking boots, mountain bike, or skis, indicating that this would be anything more than one of my boring trips to Jackson—he would likely stay put.
"Sure you don't want to come with me?" I'd ask.
He'd stand and give his tail an apologetic little wag, the way people will open their hands and duck their heads as they backpedal into an excuse.
"Okay," I'd say, "See you later. Have a good afternoon."
And as I drove off, I'd see him leave the porch and head into Kelly, where more engaging alternatives awaited him.
In this way—day by day, trip by trip, season by season—he became his own dog. At two years old, he had filled out to seventy pounds, but seemed larger—not in weight, but in presence. The pool of quiet that surrounded him—that collected air he had worn from the moment we met—had expanded into an aura of self-possession as he worked through his phobias, catalogued his likes and dislikes, and gathered experience.
And because he was tranquil, he drew people to him. Children especially liked to touch him, asking, "Where's his collar?"
"He only wears it sometimes," I'd answer.
"But why?" they'd persist.
"How would you like it if you had to wear a collar every minute of your life?"
They would consider this, their hands resting on his ruff as if sensing something magical and beyond their experience—a dog without a collar, a quiet dog, who didn't try to lick them but looked them gently in the eye.
Part of Merle's equanimity, I thought, might have been attributed to the fact that I'm a relatively calm person, and he was therefore reflecting my demeanor, just as so many domestic dogs reflect the personalities of their human companions. Part might also have been created by his having spent his puppyhood among Navajos, a dignified and reserved people. And part of his composure was most likely influenced by his hound genes, which he seemed to have inherited along with his Lab blood. A friend had shown me some photos of Redbone Coonhounds, and some of them could have been Merle's brothers and sisters, aside from their pendulous ears. The texture and color of Merle's coat and the coats of Redbone Coonhounds were similar; their longish snouts, longer than a Lab's, were a close match; and their bold stance and the upright curving position of their tails were all identical. Most of all, Merle's behavior and the behavior of Redbone Coonhounds ran very much along the same lines: instead of barking, baying; instead of retrieving, tracking; instead of submission, an independent streak that said in a dozen different ways, "I'm my own dog."
The largest contribution to Merle's personality, however, came from the experiences he had both enjoyed and endured during his youth. He must have been exposed to a large variety of people, dogs, wild animals, and situations before his socialization window closed at the age of about four and a half months. Up until this age puppies will become habituated to almost anything, and Merle took almost everything in stride except shotguns and firecrackers.
The life he then discovered in Kelly was equally diverse as well as authentic. Whether he was on his own or with other dogs, the activities he enjoyed were unstructured and self-motivated—he was able to undertake them, break them off, and resume them according to his own schedule. None of this would have happened to the same extent had he not had a door of his own: su propia puerta, sa propre porte. Say it in any language, it means the same thing to the dog who's using it: freedom.
The dog behaviorist Dr. Patricia McConnell speaks to this issue when she writes, "A large number of the behavioral problems that I see have their origin in boredom. Ironically the problem has gotten worse as we've taken more care of our dogs and stopped letting them run free." Without really thinking about it, I had followed her advice: I didn't take care of Merle; I allowed him to take care of himself. The result wasn't an unmanageable dog, but a steady one.
Others noticed who he had become and trusted him. When my friends Scott and April Landale's first daughter, Tessa, began to crawl, she immediately made her way to Merle, lying on a throw rug in their cabin. Scott and April said not a word, made not a move, only watched—letting the situation between the little girl and the dog evolve without any input of their own. When Tessa put her arms on Merle's head and began to tug at his ears, he inclined his head. When she crawled over his back, he half closed his eyes, as if forbearance of the young was something he knew all about.
I'll admit I held my breath as she grabbed his tail, for Merle, despite his poise, had one significant jitteriness. If you inadvertently trod on his paw or tail while he was dozing, however lightly, he'd leap to his feet and yowl in your face in the most accusing way imaginable, "You oaf! Be more careful!" And then he'd catch himself and look abashed. Perhaps he had been stepped upon between his eighth and tenth week of life, when puppies are particularly sensitive to developing chronic fears, and had never forgotten the trauma.
Tessa yanked on his tail, and Merle whipped his head around. But he didn't make a sound. He merely studied her neutrally and pulled his tail out of her grasp. I let out my breath. Then she slid along his flank, past his shoulder, and pulled herself up by his neck, which he bowed to her. She began to touch his nose and his lips, and he put his moist black nose on her curly blond hair, his nostrils dilating as they drank in her milky scent. She continued her exploration of him by forcing open his lips and looking at his long white teeth, her tiny fingers tracing their sharp edges. He moved not a millimeter, aware of the great delicacy that had been entrusted to his mouth. At last, Tessa grew tired. Curling herself on Merle's outstretched legs, she went to sleep, snuggled against his chest. He rested his chin over her back, and his eyes met mine and held them. "This," they surely said, "is someone to be very careful of."
Then he, too, closed his eyes and, with the young girl in his arms, followed her into sleep.
Chapter 7
Top Dog
Given the length of our commute between the cabin and the trailer, just a mile and a half, how much Merle enjoyed his first run of the day, and how peaceable the scenery was, I suspect that we might never have built a house of our own had two things not happened, one dramatic, the other insidious. The first involved a moose.
He was a great bull moose, with enormous polished antlers, and had been hanging around the cabin as the winter snows deepened, browsing the willow and making a daybed on the south side of the cabin, where he dozed in the heat reflected from the logs. One night, tired from skiing, I had fallen asleep shortly after showering, feeding Merle, and eating my own dinner.
A few hours later, I heard, "Uh." A moment later, another "uh." Then, after a few more seconds pause, still another "uh." The uhs were being uttered very diplomatically, the human equivalent of a whispered "Excuse me."
Merle was making his glottal stop by my bedside. It had become apparent that he preferred to use the glottal stop at night, as if it were a less obtrusive way of waking me up than the lisping cluck. I opened my eyes, and by the light of the moon—it was almost full—I saw him looking directly into my face from six inches away. As soon as he saw that I was awake, he quietly blew breath out of his nose, a tiny snort, which meant "Please, can you open the door.
I want to go out."
I sighed. The bed was warm, and when I had looked at the thermometer at the front door before turning in, it had read twelve below zero. For about the six millionth time, I wished Merle had a dog door up here at the cabin. However, soon after installing his dog door at the trailer, I had asked my landlady if I could put one in the cabin, which would involve cutting an opening in the logs. Her long silence had given me my answer. "It was just a thought," I added quickly. "It's not really necessary." I didn't want to push her. She was the kindest of lessors, charging me a fraction of the going rate, and, with the place's views and privacy, I certainly didn't want to leave.
Yet within days of installing the dog door at my office, I had come to appreciate how it alleviated one of the more frustrating aspects of the dog–human relationship. I simply hadn't kept track of how many times each evening Merle wanted to go outside. Now that I was no longer being his doorman at the trailer, his need to come and go at the cabin seemed outrageous. It could be half a dozen times a night.
When I thought about it, though, what was there to interest him in the cabin? He didn't read. He didn't talk on the telephone. He didn't write letters. He didn't watch TV (not that there was one). He didn't have long discussions with me about the national debt or the Persian Gulf War. Most of what he considered important was outside. And there was always the question in the back of my mind, Did he really have to pee or take a dump?