For any anthropomorphism we use to describe our dogs, we can ask two questions: One, is there a natural behavior this action might have evolved from? And two, what would that anthropomorphic claim amount to if we deconstructed it?
What is considered aggressive is culturally and generationally relative. German shepherds were on the top of the list after World War II; in the 1990s Rottweilers and Dobermans were scorned; the American Staffordshire terrier (also known as the pit bull) is the current bête noire. Their classification has more to do with recent events and public perception than with their intrinsic nature. Recent research found that of all breeds, dachshunds were the most aggressive to both their own owners and to strangers. Perhaps this is underreported because a snarling dachshund can be picked up and stashed away in a tote bag.
Not only do dogs not typically hunt to feed themselves—whether encouraged to or not—but what hunting technique they have is, it has been noted, “sloppy.” A wolf makes a calm, steady track toward his prey, without any frivolous moves; untrained dogs’ hunting walks are herky-jerky, meandering back and forth, speeding and slowing. Worse, they may get waylaid by distracting sounds or a sudden urge to playfully pursue a falling leaf. Wolves’ tracks reveal their intent. Dogs have lost this intent; we have replaced it with ourselves.
It was our way of interacting together that made her who she was, that makes dogs that most people want to live with: interested in our goings and comings, attentive to us, not overly intrusive, playful just at the right times. She interpreted the world through acting on it, by seeing others act, by being shown, and by acting with me on the world—promoted into being a good member of the family. And the more time we spent together, the more she became who she was, and the more we were intertwined.
What specificity of image the name “vomeronasal” conjures up! Evoking the displeasure of getting a good sniff of fresh vomit, the “vomer” is actually a description of the part of the small bone in the nose where the sensory cells sit. Still, the name seems somehow fitting for an animal that is notorious for coprophagia (feces eating) and that may lick another dog’s urine off the ground. Neither act is vomitous for dogs; it’s just a way of getting even more information about other dogs or animals in the area. The vomeronasal organ, first discovered in reptiles, is a specialized sac above the mouth or in the nose covered with more receptor sites for molecules.
In the annals of animal urine marking, dogs are not the most impressive players. Hippopotami wave their tails as they spray urine, better to scatter it, sprinkler-like, in all directions. There are rhinoceroses who follow their high-powered urination onto bushes with destruction of the same bushes with horn and hoof—to ensure, presumably, that their urine is spread far and wide. Pity the owner whose dog is the first to discover the spreading-efficiency of high-powered, whirling-sprinkler urination.
Those who study sheepdogs observe, for instance, that dogs will growl at sheep. Growling is a dog communication: the dog is treating the sheep more like a dog than like a possible meal. These dogs’ only fault is to overgeneralize: not only are they clear on their own identity, in some sense—they also think that everyone else is a dog, too. One could call this foible very human: they talk to sheep as though they were dogs, just as we talk to dogs as though they were humans.
And despite their marvelous range and extent of communication, it is the very fact that they do not use language that makes me especially treasure dogs. Their silence can be one of their most endearing traits. Not muteness: absence of linguistic noise. There is no awkwardness in a shared silent moment with a dog: a gaze from the dog on the other side of the room; lying sleepily alongside each other. It is when language stops that we connect most fully.
The dog laugh is a breathy exhalation that sounds like an excited burst of panting. We could call it social panting: it is a pant only heard when dogs are playing or trying to get someone to play with them. Dogs don’t seem to laugh to themselves, off sitting in the corner of the room, recollecting how that tawny dog in the park outsmarted her human this morning. Instead, dogs laugh when interacting socially. If you have played with your dog, you have probably heard it. In fact, doing your own social panting toward a dog is one of the most effective ways to elicit play.
Dogs are much better at learning about things that are important to us in our visual world than we seem to be in understanding theirs. I still can’t tell you why Pump became excited at the mere sight of a husky-shaped dog appearing around the corner. But after a dozen years I began to notice that she did. She, on the other hand, was quicker to recognize the importance I placed on certain objects—the distinction between the frayed sofa and my favored armchair with respect to her chance of sitting on it; the slippers whose fetching made me laugh versus the running shoes whose delivery made me scold.