Inside of a Dog_ What Dogs See, Smell, and Know - Alexandra Horowitz [23]
Knowing the breed of a dog gives us a first-pass entry into understanding something about the dog before we have even met the dog. But it is a mistake to think that knowing a breed guarantees that it will behave as advertised—only that it has certain tendencies. What you get with a mixed-breed dog is a softening of the hard edges seen in breeds. Temperaments are more complex: averaged versions of their bred forebears. In any event, naming a dog's breed is only the beginning of a true understanding of the dog's umwelt, not an endpoint: it doesn't get to what the dog's life is about to the dog.
ANIMALS WITH AN ASTERISK
It's snowing and dawn is breaking, which means we have about three minutes for me to get dressed and get us into the park to play before the snow is trammeled by other merrymakers. Outside, well bundled, I plow clumsily through the deep snow, and Pump hurtles herself through it with great bounds, leaving the footprints of a giant bunny. I plop down to make a snow angel, and Pump throws herself down beside me and seems to be making a snow-dog angel, twisting to and fro on her back. I look to her with complete joy at our shared play. Then I smell a horrible odor coming from her direction. The realization is quick: Pump's not making a snow-dog angel; she's rolling in the decaying carcass of a small animal.
There is a tension between those who consider dogs wild animals at their core and those who consider dogs creatures of our own making. The first group tends to turn to wolf behavior to explain dog behavior. The recently popular dog trainers are admired for their full embrace of the wolf side of dogs. They are often seen mocking the second group, which treats their dogs as quadrupedal, slobbery people. Neither has got it right. The answer is plumb in the middle of these approaches. Dogs are animals, of course, with atavistic tendencies, but to stop here is to have a blinkered view of the natural history of the dog. They have been retooled. Now they are animals with an asterisk.
The inclination to look at dogs as animals rather than creations of our psychology is essentially right. To avoid anthropomorphizing, some turn to what might be called unsympathetic biology: a biology free of subjectivity or such messy considerations as consciousness, preferences, sentiment, or personal experiences. A dog is but an animal, they say, and animals are but biological systems whose behavior and physiology can be explained with simpler, general-purpose terminology. Recently I saw a woman leaving the pet store with her terrier, who himself was newly shod in four tiny shoes—to prevent his bringing the street filth into her house, she explained, as she pulled him skating on rigid limbs down the filthy street. This woman could benefit from more reflection on her dog's animal nature, and less on his resemblance to a stuffed toy. In fact, as we'll see, understanding some of the dogs' complexities—the acuity of their noses, what they can see and cannot see, their loss of fearfulness, and the simple affect of a wag—goes a long way to understanding dogs.
On the other hand, in a number of ways, calling a dog just an animal, and explaining all dog behavior as emerging from wolf behavior, is incomplete and misleading. The key to dogs' success living with us in our homes is the very fact that dogs are not wolves.
For instance, it is high time we revamp the false notion that our dogs view us as their "pack." The "pack" language—with its talk of the "alpha" dog, dominance, and submission—is one of the most pervasive metaphors for the family of humans and dogs. It originates where dogs originated: dogs emerged from wolflike ancestors, and wolves form packs. Thus, it is claimed, dogs form packs. The seeming naturalness