Inside of a Dog_ What Dogs See, Smell, and Know - Alexandra Horowitz [115]
He was right to implicate our self-regard in our regard of our pets. (As far as I know, though, Derrida never had a dog: his discomfiture might have been greater at the dog's superior gaze.) Of course we revel in the animals themselves. Still, part of what we see when we look at a dog is: the dog looking at us. This is a component of our bond, too. I still imagine my own dog, Pumpernickel, looking at me, seeing herself in my eyes. And I look at her, seeing myself in hers.
The Importance of Mornings
Pump changed my own umwelt. Walking through the world with her, watching her reactions, I began to imagine her experience. My enjoyment of a narrow winding path in a shady forest, lined with low bushes and grasses, comes in part from seeing how Pump enjoyed it: the cool of the shade, of course, but also the pathiness, allowing her to zoom along unchecked, stopping only for rousing scents along the sides.
I now see city blocks, and their sidewalks and buildings, with their investigatory sniffing possibilities in mind: a sidewalk along an uninterrupted wall without fences, trees, or variation, is a block I'd never want to walk down. Where I'll choose to sit in the park—which bench, what rock—is based on where a dog at my side would have the best panoramic olfactory view. Pump loved large open lawns—to plop down in, to roll repeatedly in, to sniff endlessly—and high grass or brush—to lope regally through. I came to love large open lawns and high grass and brush in anticipation of her enjoyment. (The interest in rolling in unseen smells remains elusive …)
I smell the world more. I love to sit outside on a breezy day.
My day is tilted toward morning. The importance of mornings has always been that if I awoke early enough, we could have a long, off-leash walk together in a relatively unpeopled park or beach. I still have trouble sleeping in.
It is a very small bit comforting to realize how deeply she is in me, even over a year from the day when she was also aside me, willing to submit to a tickle of the dense curls under her chin as she rested it on the ground for the last time.
Sitting with a dog on my lap, considering what we know about dogs' abilities, experiences, and perception, I feel partway to full dogness myself. Also, right now, I am covered with dog hair.
Even without getting coated with fur, the knowledge of dog science brings us closer to an understanding of, and appreciation for, dog behavior: how it arises from the ancestral canid, from domestication, from their sensory acuteness, and from their sensitivity to us. With any luck it will get under your skin and you will see the dog from the dog's point of view. Along the way, here is a smattering of ideas of umwelt-ful ways of relating to your dog, of interpreting their behavior, and of considering them in our lives.
GO FOR A "SMELL WALK"
Most of us would agree that we go for walks with dogs for the dog's sake. It is for Pump's sake that I woke early every morning, to catch a permitted off-leash walk in the park; for her sake that I came home during the day to circle the block with her; for her sake that I shod myself before bed and sleepwalked a walk. Yet dog-walks are often not done with the dog's sake in mind, but strangely playing out a very human definition of a walk. We want to make good time; to keep a brisk pace; to get to the post office and back. People yank their dogs along, tugging at leashes to get noses out of smells, pulling past tempting dogs, to get on with the walk.
The dog doesn't care about making good time. Instead, consider the walk your dog wants. Pump and I had a good variety. There were the smell walks, where we made zero progress but she inhaled untold purple, mesmerizing molecules. There were Pump's-choice walks, where I let her choose which way we went at every intersection. There were serpentine walks, where I restrained myself instead of her as she weaved on leash from my left to my right