The Rural Voice, 1999-08, Page 57Guest Column
Please save me from having to think like my dog
By Sharon McGregor
When I was growing up, we
always had a dog on the farm. He
brought the cows in for milking,
helped keep foxes and weasels away
from the henhouse and kept
adventurous youngsters from falling
down abandoned wells. In return, he
received a roof over his head (under
the front steps), a steady diet of table
scraps and the secrets and
confidences of his closest friend —
me. I'm sure he was reasonably
happy. He never turned up his nose at
the battered old bowl he ate from,
never requested leather booties in the
winter and seemed generally
accepting of his lot in life.
Today's dog is a horse — er mutt
of a different colour. He wears a
designer bandanna, eats gourmet
food, monogrammed tableware and is
better acquainted with his personal
vet than most of us are with our
doctors.
My dog Fritz is an animal of
suspect pedigree, although to protect
his sensibilities I refer to him within
his earshot as having a cosmopolitan
heritage. He came to a sudden
decision last week that he would no
longer sleep in his dog -bed. Nothing I
could do or say would induce him to
set foot in it. I combed my friends,
the internet and dog journals for
advice on handling this problem.
My friend Pat suggested I wasn't
looking at it from the dog's point of
view. "Maybe there's something at
dog's eye level that intimidates him",
she said.
So, I got down on all fours in front
of his bed and tried to see things from
a dog's perspective. As I was
hunkered down with my posterior in
the air and mycose in the carpet pile,
my son walked into the room.
"You know Mom", he said
"people have been committed for
less."
I read an article in a dog magazine
that outlined the relationship between
person and dog in terms of Alpha
wolf, Beta and a few other Greek
letters. I didn't really understand it
but figured it meant that I, as Alpha
Wolf, should set an example. So 1
Whatever
happened to
dogs who
liked the
simple
comforts of
life
coaxed Fritz over to the bed and
showed him how it was done. I curled
up outside the bed and called for him
to climb in. He came over, licked me
in the face then ambled over to lie
down at the foot of the lazy boy.
Pat had another suggestion. "I read
in an article," she offered, "that since
dogs are social animals they don't
feel comfortable unless they're part
of a group. Maybe Fritz thinks you're
ostracizing him by putting his bed
away in a corner. Try putting it in
your bedroom at night."
"Or maybe," she continued, "he
feels threatened by the cat, since she
sleeps on the back of the couch. Or
maybe ..."
I stopped her there. Dog
psychology be darned. I was ready to
give up. If Fritz didn't want to sleep
in his bed, he could have the floor. I
whisked the blanket out to wash it
and stared at the bed.
"So that's where it disappeared
to," I yelped. Lying in the middle of
Fritz's bed and previously covered by
his blanket was a large prickly steel
barbecue brush, with the business
side up. I may never find out how it
got there, but at least Fritz's
behaviour was now understandable.
Maybe Sigmund said it all years ago,
though I think he was referring to the
behaviour of people. "Sometimes a
cigar is just a cigar."0
Sharon McGregor is a freelance
writer living in Brandon, Manitoba.
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