If Pets Could Talk, Would We Love Them as Much?

I was on my way to a dog training client's home in Adams County Pennsylvania this weekend and I saw those words on a sign in front of a Veterinarian's Office.

The incongruity of the question didn't hit me until later when as I passed the same office on my return home, I saw a morbidly obese Lab exiting the office with it's owner.

I thought that the question should read "If our Pets could talk, would THEY love US as much?

A thousand years ago I had a dream about one of the dogs I owned at the time; a bright, intuitive German Shepherd Dog named Rose. She and I were inseparable for many years and we shared many things. She was the consummate mother to countless litters not her own, was a master of surprise and possessed a sense of humor equal to or greater than most people. She was one of a kind on so many levels.

Anyway, in the dream I was sitting on the first landing from the steps that led to my cellar and she was leaning against the washing machine with a cigarette and a brandy snifter, elbow leaning on the top of the appliance, upright on her hind legs like a human, lower legs crossed at the hock.

Her long saber tail is draped around her feet in a very vintage 20's coquettish fashion, as she asks me to explain to her the differences between she and me.

"Well Rose" I start, "you are a dog and I am a human".

She sips her brandy with strangely articulated paws, draws on her cigarette and says "Nope".

"Oppose-able Thumbs".

She sets down her glass, puts out her cigarette, walks to the stairs and past me on the landing sashaying like a queen.

I remember waking up with a start and trying to remember where I left the car keys in fear that she and her partner Indy had decided to steal the credit cards and take a trip to Atlantic City without me.

Somehow I seriously doubt that our pets would love us as much if they could talk, since it would also have to include the requisite criticisms we must face as a result.

I would have to wonder how many of us would make it to enduring friendship with an animal that could talk. Would our long association abruptly end as a result? Would we end up in a Planet-of-The-Apes type scenario where humans became the targets of exploitation, extermination and mass sterilization?

If our animals could talk, would we love them as much? Somehow I think we would fear them, or at least some of us would.

I for one am glad they don't, but anyone who really KNOWS dogs, know that they can easily convey their emotions. Rose for example, is certainly NOT a dog I would want capable of speech. But all the same we always communicated.

I could hear her voice now, regarding the poor choices I made in men, (she was quite capable of making the right decisions even when I was not) in jobs (when I had jobs that left her at home, they were always bad choices, not because they created separation anxiety in her or any of the other dogs, but because of the withering glares I would get when I got home, "where have you been, what have you been doing, you smell like other dogs") in vehicles (there's not enough room for ALL OF US) in food (Popcorn, MAKE POPCORN! Pizza? Did someone say PIZZA?) and friends of either sex ("She smells funny". "Whaddya mean I can't do THAT? How else am I gonna know if SHE'S RIGHT?")

She was an indiscriminate giver of love and a harbinger of great fear to anyone canine or human that she chose, but she was always right.

Hated my first husband, pleaded with me not to marry him and took great pleasure in giving the poor man a few less heartbeats every chance she got. She never tried to bite him, just treated him with the greatest disdain. Used to deliberately lay in wait for him so she could scare him every chance she got. Usually when he was coming up the steps from the basement of our house in New York. She would wait to hear his footsteps on the wooden stairs and position herself just behind the door so that when he tried to open it he couldn't because she was laying up against it. When he began to recognize her trick, he would leave it ajar so that he could see if she was laying there. In those instances, she would wait far enough back so he couldn't see her shadow or her form and just before he could reach the handle to push it open, she would slam herself against it and shut it in his face.

She would walk away from these episodes like she had just accomplished climbing K-12. She was the greatest show on earth.

She worshipped my second husband. They were best friends from the moment they met. She was in the drivers seat of my Blue Ford van as a matter of fact, working to roll down the window and come looking for me when the both of us came out to the parking lot together as she was vaulting out the window.

She walked over to us, gave him her regard, nodded her approval and jumped back into the van. Through the driver's side window. The same one she had exited. My future husband thought that was amazing. I told her to stop showing off.

Back in those days, electric windows were a luxury for the wealthy. Since I was not so, my windows were the manual kind. I figure she had taught herself through trial and error to do it, but she was always prudent in her use of it.

At a Dog Show in York Pennsylvania a few years later, she let herself out of the van while my new husband and I watched an entry of mine in the ring. There is no way she could have seen us but she found us none-the-less, skirting dog show officials and those who wished to catch the LOOSE DOG! LOOSE DOG! on the show grounds. She came straight to us, plunked herself at our feet and looked at me with those shrewd Rose eyes that told me in no uncertain terms that it was late, she was lonely and why is this taking so long? People came running at us to chastise us for the LOOSE DOG!!! and command us to collar her up so that she doesn't get hurt. And on and on as some fools will do. Hurt? Me? she said. Pah!

Gritting my teeth from the embarrassment of it all, I led her away at heel only to be told again that she needed a collar and leash. "Well, no not really, I comment. "She is that mythical creature of legend, a TRAINED dog, see"?

I never attempted to stop her from doing it. Some may recriminate me for that, but she would exit the van to seek me, not trouble. She would sometimes exit to relieve herself and then jump back in. I had no problems with either and neither did the times. To allow this today would invite disaster with the Humaniacs and PETA Nazis.

She would patrol our little bit of ground morning noon and night and announce an all-clear after each and every search. She could tell me of visitors, how they got there, how they left and practically what they did. She warned of intruders and forbade me entry into my own home until she was thoroughly convinced that no-one was there but those that belonged.

She greeted guests like a diplomat and would coyly encourage them to give her things like a good politician. She was selective in her attentions to the best bratwurst, spare-ribs and steaks at parties and loved it when I made it rain popcorn. She worshiped children and I mourned that she would never meet my only child.

She suffered the loss of her best friend for years after Indy's untimely death and rejoiced in the birth of each and every puppy even if they were not her own.

She was my best friend on the face of the planet for years and I still miss her today so many years after her passing.

I always wondered what she would say to me if she could talk and I am not sure some of those words would be so kind.

In the dream she had a deep, resonant voice. No accent, just plain English.

In reality it was much the same.

Yeah, Rosie.

Oppose-able thumbs indeed.

The Story of Edgar Sawtelle and other Fictional Tales...

After much prompting by my colleagues and friends, I broke down and bought the book written by David Wroblewski in the hopes of finally finding a tale worthy of my limited time.

I love to read and in earlier days made a practice of reading as much as I could on any topic I found of interest (to the point that what parts of my home which are not allocated to the housing of dogs, people and all of their accoutrements but to books; hundreds and hundreds of them).

The vast majority of my book space is divined for works of non-fiction but occasionally I will allow a fictional piece to reside there in a collection that ranges from archaeology to astrophysics. Every letter of the alphabet is represented although of late I tend to shove them in any available space and in no particular order. If I have to find something in particular, I have to search each and every spine, looking at each and every title.

Someday, I will treat myself to organizing them in such a way that they are cataloged in some reasonable fashion. Something tells me however, that is not likely to happen anytime soon. Still they proliferate; on nightstands, coffee tables, office desks, kitchen counters, chairs, beds and dining room tables. I cannot pass a bookstore, library or antique shop without buying SOMETHING with pages and text.

I need a bigger house. The Library of Congress or the archives of the Vatican will do nicely.

What drew me to this story of course is the dog component. A genealogy that begins and ends with one family who painstakingly creates a recognizable type of dog based on an intangible virtue.

The founder, John Sawtelle is captivated by a dog he meets by chance in a town distant from the one he lives in, based on how the dog regards him. How the dog looks at him.

In the era of Albert Payson Terhune and his books about the life at Sunnybank Fam, I guess the term that best describes the quality of dog that Sawtelle envisions is 'sagacity'.

I suppose every dog owner would feel that way about their dog, but as a reproducible quality?

He acquires a dog of indiscriminate ancestry through a trade and the Sawtelle dogs are born.

I imagine in the early foundation of all recognizable dog breeds, something similar had to have taken place and the thought becomes not so idyllic after all, but the story unfolds with the principals essentially creating a strain of dogs whose no greater purpose is to be good pets. Or as referred to in the book, 'companion animals'.

There is much of value in this read; of training dogs, rearing dogs, breeding dogs but then the story veers dangerously into a treatise of why 'show dogs' will never be selected as breeding stock but then great importance is placed on (what otherwise should be maintained as arbitrary structure or if you prefer; conformation, of) the Sawtelle dogs.

So why is structure given so much emphasis? My initial thought was that this passage was going to lend itself to the argument of form following function and at least the suggestion of breeding dogs for a purposeful task, but I was mistaken as the story continues to unfold.

Although the story abandons the pretense of being a 'dog story' pretty early on, Mr Wroblewski had an interesting collection of material to work from, but still some of what is portrayed in the book can only come from one who has experienced it first-hand. I read somewhere that Wroblewski had a relative that bred English Springer Spaniels for field trials, but I have not been able to confirm that claim.

There is no illusion about the book being other than a novel, but it is rich with language and descriptions comforting to 'dog people' everywhere. It resonates with the reader that is familiar with dogs and the dog culture. The language is deeply descriptive, warmly familiar and relatively responsible with issues that are germane to breeders, trainers and other dog professionals.

The book never loses enthusiasm for responsible practices and lends insight to much of the concerns surrounding the politics of 'dog'.

The Sawtelle dogs undergo rigorous training and handling from birth to placement and the regimented protocols are documented in such a way as to give clear and concise information on not only their heritage, but their growth and development both physically, mentally and emotionally.

Much of what is done mirrors the processes of conscientious breeders and trainers throughout the ages and one can read this novel and come away with a feeling that there IS someone out there that KNOWS what it's like to handle a great dog from the moment of it's birth to it's passing.

Much of what is written should be done for ALL DOGS, representing goals all dog breeders should aspire to, all trainers should aspire to accomplish at all levels of obedience.

But the story takes it's departure from our personal beliefs through a dialogue remembered by the central character regarding a conversation about the breeding to "show dogs" and how that 'must never occur' in the grand scheme of the Sawtelle dogs. Another about the value of the Sawtelle dogs as it relates to the value of a pup from a 'show ring Champion'.

I do not disagree with the concept, as most dogs of pure breeding today are rife with hereditary defects that disable their abilities to function in the capacities that they were developed and maintained for. My departure came when I realized that the Sawtelle dogs were specifically created for 'that one-in-a-million' quality that is so intangible that it cannot be measured by breeding for or training for. These mythological beasts were created out of whimsy to satisfy one man's quest for 'sagacity'.

The current definition of a show dog is pretty much like what you see at the Westminster Kennel Club's annual show in New York. It is an arbitrary adherence to an arbitrary standard of physical perfection (conformation) without the rigorous testing that only a standard of FUNCTION can determine.

What was originally intended to identify the physiology of exemplary working structure borne by merit of performance has been reduced to the production of Beauty Pageant contestants.

As a dog professional, I understood the derision and the reference, but I got lost when I realized that the description of the Sawtelle dogs became one of an esthetic standard. If not in physiology, then one of the mind.

And then there's the line as remembered by the son Edgar about what a dog 'meant'.

The construction of the dialogue with Fortunate Fields and the correspondance over what the founder of the Sawtelle dogs called the "next dogs".

All interesting hypothesis that ends up tragically wasted by the ending of the book.

These qualities that Sawtelle sought are those of the mind. I got the impression that what he was trying to create was literally a mind-reading dog, or one so perceptive to it's owners needs that it could interpret human behavior and engage it on a cerebral level.

The final portion of the book has the lead character literally releasing the dogs into the wild where they take up with a feral dog that is written about intermittently throughout the story.

The reader is left to come to his own conclusions regarding the outcome of the dogs, the genetic endowment and the painstaking work to create them in one final cataclysmic blow.

It's a good read for a lot of people. Dog folks too, if you can suspend your disbelief and remember that it is a work of fiction.

I am ambivalent about the book. I liked the story until it grinds to a screeching halt undoing anything I had personally hoped for regarding the outcome of the magnificent Sawtelle dogs and their rich, inspiring history.

I hated the fact that it played on the dubious fortune of randomly breeding dogs for a reason that is, to me at least, a bit pretentious. This train of thinking is what has given birth to the capitalization of 'new breeds' of designer dogs instead of preserving the working qualities of the dogs at hand.

I was left thinking about the concept of the "next dogs" and what ramifications that could possibly have.

As for what a dog "meant" all one has to do is ask a dog owner who has painstakingly created a relationship with his animal, a breeder who has chosen judicious selection to a standard of performance over the contentious fad breeding of the show dog populations and the trainer, who has endured to understand dogs through observation, effort and compassion.

I have already found a home for my copy.