Am I Boring My Dog_And 99 Other Things Every Dog Wishes You Knew - Edie Jarolim
INTRODUCTION
“You’re writing a book about dogs?” my friend Sharon asked, sounding surprised. “I never really thought of you as a dog person.” Sharon and I have known each other since we were 5, so I wasn’t surprised by her surprise. I never really thought of myself as a dog person either, until I got a dog, which made me a dog person by default. Before then, I was convinced there was a dog-person demographic—one that I didn’t fit.
Not that I didn’t like dogs. Far from it. But I grew up in pre-hip Brooklyn, with a mother who feared all creatures great and small. The dogs I saw on TV romped around the country-side or chased balls down suburban streets. They didn’t board elevators in rundown apartment buildings or beg for pastrami from the corner deli. Nor did actual dogs frequent my early circles. The occasional hamster and odd budgie found their way into my friends’ homes, but our childhood menageries were canine-free.
Marriage, tiny Manhattan quarters, graduate school, publishing jobs with long hours … all, I decided, ruled out getting a dog. Even when I bought a house with a backyard in Tucson, Arizona, I remained dogless. Everyone knows that coyotes, not their domesticated kin, live in the desert.
Besides, I had become a travel writer.
I might have rationalized my prime dog-rearing years away, secretly worried that, like my mother, I lacked the canine caretaking gene. Then in 2004 I met Rebecca, fellow writer, fellow foodie—and evangelical dog rescuer.
The next thing I knew, I was palling around with terriers.
Or, to be specific, one small terrier mix: Frankie.
I didn’t take Rebecca’s canine bait right away, mind you. Sure, the picture she e-mailed me was cute, but Frankie was about 5 years old when he was found skittering around the streets of Tucson. I’d always pictured myself with a new model dog. And then there were my travels—not as frequent or far-flung as in the past, but still a good fallback excuse. What would happen to Frankie when I went away?
Rebecca informed me that older dogs were much mellower than puppies—and thus a better fit for a newbie like me—and that Frankie was very low maintenance. She promised to take care of him while I was gone, but pointed out that many hotels accept small dogs. The fact that I was always holed up, writing, when I was in Tucson was a real advantage, Rebecca added. She was certain I’d give Frankie a great home.
It was this last assurance that finally reeled me in. If a dog rescuer thought I’d be a good dog guardian … well, maybe I would be.
And so, after deeming my home dog-safe (Hint: neatness is not a criterion), Rebecca asked me to suggest a date to begin Frankie’s two-week trial stay with me. I optimistically chose my upcoming birthday.
I would like to report that Frankie and I bonded immediately, that as soon as his trusting little face looked into mine I knew I’d made the right decision. I would like to, but it would be a lie. Frankie’s little face wasn’t trusting; it was terrified. He glued himself to my couch and went on a hunger strike. His sole demand: Rebecca’s return. I spent my birthday in tears, certain I’d made the biggest mistake of my life.
But pride and obstinacy have their rewards. I prefer not to admit that I’ve done something stupid (unless I’m certain to be found out, in which case I confess, all cheerful selfdeprecation) or that I’m inept (ditto). I knew I was ignorant about all things canine, but I also knew that people far meaner than me managed to get dogs to like them. Surely I could win over one small, dejected pup.
I started calling friends and asking questions, reading dog books, going to training classes, asking more questions, reading some more. Frankie pitched in, after his desire for food overcame his ardor for Rebecca. And slowly, despite Frankie’s fears and mine, we built a life together—a rich, complex, and frequently goofy one.
And that dog person profile? Feh. Anyone who likes dogs can—and deserves to—be a dog person. It’s just a question of getting some basics under your belt.
Which is why I decided to write a book about dogs.
The result, Am I Boring My Dog?, is geared toward those who are contemplating getting a dog, those who have just gotten a dog, and those who believe they can do better by their dog—in short, the confused and the guilty. I remain among their vast ranks. I know a great deal more about dogs than I did before I got one and before I researched this book, but I learn something new each day. Frankie, in particular, lets me know that I still have a long way to go toward understanding his species—as, he believes, do animal scientists.
I’m not pleading ignorance as a disclaimer for anything I may have missed or gotten wrong (although I’d be very pleased to be excused for both). Rather, ignorance was at once an inspiration and a qualification for this project. People who grow up with dogs often don’t know what they don’t know. It’s like the friend from California who came to visit me in New York and couldn’t stop laughing when he discovered there was a neighborhood in Queens called Flushing. I’d gone through a childhood full of potty humor—including the entire I.P. line; remember The Purple River by I.P. Peculiar and The Golden River by I.P. Freely?—without ever noticing this fine local example.
Ignorance wasn’t my only qualification for writing this book, however. As a travel journalist, I was charged with trying to make sense of foreign cultures—an excellent preparation for exploring Dog World. Looking back on my Complete Idiot’s Travel Guide to Mexico’s Beach Resorts, I’ve decided that Frankie is the Acapulco of dogs: charming, a bit older, but with fame that—I hope—is about to be burnished.
Getting a Ph.D. in literature turned out to be surprisingly useful, too. Compared with the writings of critics like Lacan and Derrida, even the most arcane of the many books I read by dog experts seemed lucid. My graduate school years at NYU also accustomed me to taking direction from a small, hairy creature, although Frankie is far handsomer—and considerably nicer—than my dissertation advisor was.
It turned out to be the best of times and the worst of times to decide to write a book about dogs. The current interest in all things canine suggests the existence of many potential book-buyers, which is excellent. But that interest also generated a vast amount of information that needed to be sifted through, much of it incorrect. (This includes the popular notion of dogs as furry children; children are, in fact, hair-challenged dogs.) Rather than risk data overload—and risk boring you, oh gentle book buyer—I outlined the basic issues, citing additional resources for those who want to explore them in greater depth.
For the same reasons, I’ve concentrated on first-dog—and therefore single-dog—households. You’ll read about the importance of being a leader to your dog, for example, but not about introducing your second pup to your first. I’ve also resisted throwing too many humans into the mix. My prime focus is on the relationship between one person and one dog, with other people pretty much serving as support staff.
Frankie was naturally enlisted to illustrate many of the points I wanted to make. That’s not to suggest any dog you get or already have will bear more than a superficial, species-based resemblance to him. You might even conclude that your dog is superior. Of course, you would be wrong.
A few words on terminology. I’ve used names of specific dogs (and people) whenever I knew them and wasn’t writing anything that could be construed as libelous; dogs are notoriously litigious. Otherwise, I have alluded to “your dog,” “pooch,” “pup,” and “canine” and—indiscriminately, but with the aim of equal time—used masculine and feminine personal pronouns. I’ve often observed the linguistic conventions of dogdom, including words like “poop” (which I never thought I’d hear from anyone other than parents of toddlers, much less use), but haven’t always steered clear of disputed terms, such as “owner” as opposed to “guardian.” Frankie is a rescue, which absolves me of any further need for political correctness.
In addition, I’ve sometimes made-up words—for example, dogdom—because it’s my book and I can.
Finally, every advice book is expected to distill a bit of take-away wisdom. Here, then, are the top five things you need to do to maximize your dog’s quality of life—and the quality of your lives together:
1. Feed your dog food (not too much).1
2. Provide plenty of exercise.
3. Train early and often.2
4. Spay or neuter your dog.
5. Don’t support puppy mills.
Observing the first, second, and fourth rules will help maintain your dog’s health; honoring the fourth and fifth will ensure you good karma; and following the second and third will go a long way toward keeping you from boring your dog. Which is only fair. Your dog may amuse you with his antics, amaze you with his wisdom, and, occasionally, fill you with fear or anguish, but he definitely won’t bore you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Frankie, naturally, was my prime source of information and inspiration for this book, but many other dogs and their companion humans also contributed a great deal. The latter include Rebecca Boren, Frankie’s rescuer, who remains a benevolent presence in our lives. Frankie is far less effusive toward Rebecca than he once was and than he should be, what with her saving his life and all, but—smart dog!—he doubtless wants to assure me of his undivided loyalty. He did indicate that he appreciated Rebecca’s refurbishment of his favorite squeaky chile toy, albeit not directly to her.
Among the many other friends who contributed advice—almost always solicited—anecdotes, and general appreciation for dogs as well as for this project are (alphabetically): Barbara Buchanan, Lori Chamberlain, Kate Davis, Lydia Davis, Jennifer Duffy, Daniela Lax, Jean McKnight, Kathy McMahon, Elaine Raines, Kimberly Schmitz, Linda Snyder, and Karyn Zoldan. Their dogs are too numerous to thank—and, besides, prefer acknowledgment in edible form.
Although I rarely traveled during the writing of this book, it was nice to know I could depend on Linda Zubel and Sarah Meyer to take care of Frankie when I went on research trips, including attending the conference of the Association of Pet Dog Trainers in Louisville. The APDT professionals I met couldn’t have been nicer to an outsider, and I learned a great deal about the efficacy of—and scientific basis for—kindness and fun as training techniques (in conjunction with consistency and firmness).
Dr. Randy Eberhardt earns kudos for being a skilled and wonderfully empathetic veterinarian. Where I allude to vets who said mean things about Frankie or subjected him to silly treatments, I am most definitely not referring to him.
I am grateful to Betty Liddick, editor of Your Dog, the news-letter of Cummings School of Veterinary Medicine at Tufts University, for encouraging my contributions and—after I paid my dues by taking on topics like shedding and inflammatory bowel disease—for giving me assignments that afforded me the opportunity to interview such top dog experts as Nicholas Dodman and Ian Dunbar.
Monte Workman, dog lover and artist extraordinaire, brought my text to life with his witty illustrations, and put up with my perfectionism.
Above all, I would like to thank Clare Macdonald, who appears frequently in these pages along with her wonder dog, Archie (formally, Archibald Macleash). Over the years, Clare’s job description as my (human) best friend has often involved talking me down from feelings of unworthiness. By reading the manuscript and offering invaluable advice, she has helped make me—or at least my book—worthy.