Inside of a Dog_ What Dogs See, Smell, and Know - Alexandra Horowitz [105]
What the head doesn't tell of the dog's intent, the tail does. The head and tail are mirrors, conveying the same information in parallel media, the classic antithesis. But they can also be true pushmi-pullyus, differently sensitive at either end. A dog who balks at being sniffed in the face may be fine being examined at the rump, or vice versa. Either the tail or head is telling you what is inside.
I would be more surprised if I were entirely correct about "what it is like" inside of a dog than if I am entirely wrong. To address this question is to begin an exercise in empathy, informed imagination, and perspective-taking more than it is to discover the conclusive account. Nagel suggested that no objective account can ever be made of other species' experiences. The privacy of the dog's personal thoughts is intact. But it is crucial that we try to imagine how he sees the world—that we replace anthropomorphisms with umwelt. And if we look carefully enough, imagine skillfully enough, we may surprise our dogs with how much we get right.
You Had Me at Hello
I walk in the door and waken Pump with my arrival. First, I hear her: the thump-thumping of her tail against the floor; her toenails scratching on the ground as she rises, heavily; the jingle of collar tags as she wriggles a shake down the length of her body and out her tail. Then I see her: her ears press back, her eyes soften; she smiles without smiling. She trots to me, her head slightly down, ears perked and tail swinging. As I reach forward she snuffles a greeting; I snuffle back. Her moist nose just touches me, her whiskers sweep my face. I'm home.
Here's a possible explanation for why dogs were not the subjects of serious scientific inquiry until recently: you don't ask questions when you already know the answers viscerally. The delight of my twice-or thrice-daily reunions with Pumpernickel is matched by their ordinariness. Nothing could seem more natural than these simple interactions: they are wonderful, but it is not a wonder that at once demands scientific scrutiny. I may as well dwell on the nature of my right elbow: it is simply a part of me, all the time, and I don't puzzle over its helpful placement there precisely between my upper arm and my forearm, or ponder what it might be like in the future.
Well, I should reconsider that elbow. For the nature of what in certain circles is termed the "dog-human bond" is exceptional. It is not just any animal awaiting my arrival, and it is not just any dog. It is a very particular kind of animal—a domesticated one—and a particular kind of dog—one with whom I have created a symbiotic relationship. Our interactions enact a dance to which only we know the particular steps. Two things—domestication and development—made the dance possible at all. Domestication sets the stage; the rituals are created together. We are bound together before we know it: it is before reflection or analysis.
The human bond with dogs is animal at its core: animal life has succeeded by individual animals associating with, and eventually bonding with others. Originally animals' connection with each other may only have lasted for one sex-filled instant. But the meeting of anatomy at some point evolved in myriad directions: into long-term pairings centered around raising young; groups of related individuals living together; unions of same-sex, non-mating animals for protection or companionship or both; even alliances between cooperative neighbors. The classic "pair bond" is a description of the association that forms between two mated animals. Bonded animals might be recognized by even a naïve observer: