The other day my son and I were discussing our culture’s tendency
to anthropomorphize our pets.
On an intellectual level, I see the pitfalls of reading human expression into our pets’ faces, ascribing human emotions to their sounds, and otherwise blurring the lines between person and creature. It almost suggests that our love is dependant on finding common ground, speaking the same language. Then, of course, my intellect looks at our dysfunctional human relationships and how often we are loathe to seek any common ground all with our fellow man.
Intellect aside, I understand the blurry lines. After all, I am convinced that my dear Goofy Pooch herself thought she was human, and she didn’t seem far wrong.
At the moment, I'm dog-sitting. My friend is in the hospital and her pugs are temporary residents of my home. Jake and Stella do not believe they are human.
Instead, they think I'm a pug.
When they put their heads together and make their little pug sounds, I suspect the conversation goes something like this: “Poor dear, she’s useful to have around, but she’s no show dog! Too tall, walks on only two paws, and - that nose! It’s as long as a terrier’s!”
My physical imperfections aside, they seem to like me. While
I work, Stella stands beside my desk, staring off into space. Jake sits, tongue at the ready, in case
something needs tasting. (When my son leaves
the bathroom after a shower, Jake rushes in and ecstatically licks the air.)
On an intellectual level, I see the pitfalls of reading human expression into our pets’ faces, ascribing human emotions to their sounds, and otherwise blurring the lines between person and creature. It almost suggests that our love is dependant on finding common ground, speaking the same language. Then, of course, my intellect looks at our dysfunctional human relationships and how often we are loathe to seek any common ground all with our fellow man.
Intellect aside, I understand the blurry lines. After all, I am convinced that my dear Goofy Pooch herself thought she was human, and she didn’t seem far wrong.
At the moment, I'm dog-sitting. My friend is in the hospital and her pugs are temporary residents of my home. Jake and Stella do not believe they are human.
Instead, they think I'm a pug.
When they put their heads together and make their little pug sounds, I suspect the conversation goes something like this: “Poor dear, she’s useful to have around, but she’s no show dog! Too tall, walks on only two paws, and - that nose! It’s as long as a terrier’s!”
My physical imperfections aside, they seem to like me. While
I work, Stella stands beside my desk, staring off into space. Jake sits, tongue at the ready, in case
something needs tasting. (When my son leaves
the bathroom after a shower, Jake rushes in and ecstatically licks the air.)
Sometimes they sit on each other. Sometimes they include me and sit on my
feet.
But despite my intellect and the pugs’ conviction that I'm one
of them, to me Jake and Stella are the quintessential siblings on a road
trip. “Mom, she looked at me!” “Mom, he’s
breathing on me!”
I gave them each a rawhide strip. Stella took hers and wandered off to enjoy it. Jake took his, raced into my office, put the treat on the floor and prepared to defend it from Stella - who was three rooms away. When she finally made her way to the office, Jake fairly trembled with vindication.
In the end they ran off to play together, ultimately happy the other is alive.
That comraderie ends at suppertime.
While I fill their food dishes, Stella waits placidly, almost sleepily. But the moment the bowl is on the floor, she transforms. She attacks her kibble with singular focus, body quivering, snuffly sounds rising from the depths of her dinner until every last morsel is gone.
I'd been warned that they didn't eat well together, so the first night they were here, I put Jake’s bowl in the dining room. As soon as he saw me filling his dish, Jake leapt into the air with excitement. He made loops around me as I carried his bowl out of the kitchen and set it down. Then he, too, transformed. Suddenly blasé, he sauntered over to his dish and casually took a bite or two.
I found this hilarious.
Then the determined snuffling in the kitchen stopped. Stella had finished her food. Like a little wind-up toy, she came waddling around the corner and made a slow-motion beeline for Jake’s half-full dish.
Jake’s hackles raised. He growled. Stella didn’t blink.
Jake's growling got louder. His forelegs stiffened. Stella didn’t even pause.
When it seemed apparent that the pugs were on a collision course with no happy end, I stepped in. After all, I am their current human and therefore the alpha in their canine world.
“Stella, stop!” I commanded.
“Stella, stop, or you’ll be in time out!”
Stella never even paused.
Jake started forward, stiff-legged, teeth bared.
Reacting on instinct, I swatted Jake with a firm “No!”, turned to Stella, bent down until our faces were level, and did the only thing I could think to do.
I growled.
I didn’t say “Grrr.” I growled. A full-throated, deep canine growl.
Stella stopped. She blinked.
Then, faced with this alpha response from her human, she turned around, found a corner - and put herself in time-out.
It seems that in our blurry lines, we found our common speech.
But despite my intellect and the pugs’ conviction that I'm one
of them, to me Jake and Stella are the quintessential siblings on a road
trip. “Mom, she looked at me!” “Mom, he’s
breathing on me!” I gave them each a rawhide strip. Stella took hers and wandered off to enjoy it. Jake took his, raced into my office, put the treat on the floor and prepared to defend it from Stella - who was three rooms away. When she finally made her way to the office, Jake fairly trembled with vindication.
In the end they ran off to play together, ultimately happy the other is alive.
That comraderie ends at suppertime.
While I fill their food dishes, Stella waits placidly, almost sleepily. But the moment the bowl is on the floor, she transforms. She attacks her kibble with singular focus, body quivering, snuffly sounds rising from the depths of her dinner until every last morsel is gone.
I'd been warned that they didn't eat well together, so the first night they were here, I put Jake’s bowl in the dining room. As soon as he saw me filling his dish, Jake leapt into the air with excitement. He made loops around me as I carried his bowl out of the kitchen and set it down. Then he, too, transformed. Suddenly blasé, he sauntered over to his dish and casually took a bite or two.
I found this hilarious.
Then the determined snuffling in the kitchen stopped. Stella had finished her food. Like a little wind-up toy, she came waddling around the corner and made a slow-motion beeline for Jake’s half-full dish.
Jake’s hackles raised. He growled. Stella didn’t blink.
Jake's growling got louder. His forelegs stiffened. Stella didn’t even pause.
When it seemed apparent that the pugs were on a collision course with no happy end, I stepped in. After all, I am their current human and therefore the alpha in their canine world.
“Stella, stop!” I commanded.
“Stella, stop, or you’ll be in time out!”
Stella never even paused.
Jake started forward, stiff-legged, teeth bared.
Reacting on instinct, I swatted Jake with a firm “No!”, turned to Stella, bent down until our faces were level, and did the only thing I could think to do.
I growled.
I didn’t say “Grrr.” I growled. A full-throated, deep canine growl.
Stella stopped. She blinked.
Then, faced with this alpha response from her human, she turned around, found a corner - and put herself in time-out.
It seems that in our blurry lines, we found our common speech.
