John Homans - What’s a Dog For?: The Surprising History, Science, Philosophy, and Politics of Man’s Best Friend

THE PENGUIN PRESS

Published by the Penguin Group

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First published in 2012 by The Penguin Press,

a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Copyright John Homans, 2012

All rights reserved

A portion of this book appeared as The Land of the Labradors in Cond Nast Traveler.

Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint excerpts from the following copyrighted works:

The Early Purges from Poems 19651975 by Seamus Heaney. Copyright 1980 by Seamus Heaney. Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, Inc. and Faber and Faber Ltd.

Another Dogs Death from Collected Poems 19531993 by John Updike. Copyright 1993 by John Updike. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc.

Photograph by Randy Harris

L IBRARY OF C ONGRESS C ATALOGING-IN- P UBLICATION D ATA

Homans, John.

Whats a dog for? : the surprising history, science, philosophy, and politics of mans best friend / John Homans.

p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 978-1-101-59627-2

1. DogsSocial aspects. 2. DogsPsychology. 3. Human-animal relationships. I. Title.

SF426.H63 2012

636.7dc23 2012009278

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

For my parents

Contents

One

Entering the World of Dog

S tellas world is in turmoilnot that youd know it by looking at her. Shes on her spot on the rug, looking at me, waiting for the next thing, as usual. A couple of milk bones that I gave her earlier are arrayed in front of her. She took them somewhat reluctantly, knowing I had steak in the refrigeratorsometimes she refuses such offerings altogether, turning her head away in what I imagine is disdain.

All seems placid, a dog on a rug, but beneath this tranquil scene, large forces are at work, and Stella, Ive been learning, is at the center of them. The very definition of who she is, what goes on in her head, how she should be treated, and what rights she might deserve have all been shifting rapidly. Today the dog world is in the throes of political and ideological convulsions of a kind not seen since Victorian times, when the dog as we know it was invented. Put simply, the dog is now in the process of being reimagined.

I wasnt aware of any of this when she arrived in our home. Stella was, to begin with, just a dogalthough in many quarters these days, just a dog are fighting words. She came into my life for the usual reasons. My wife, Angela, and I had an acute sense of time passing. Our son, Charlie, was about to turn ten, hurtling toward teenage-hood and then God knew where. Wed had a dog when he was born, a West Highland terrier named Scout, a proud, ridiculous creature whod tried not to let on just how upset he was when this squalling interloper and rival for our affections arrived. But Scout was oldthirteen at that pointand was dead before Charlies first birthday. If Charlie was ever to have a childhood dog, it was now or never.

The dog we planned to get was, like most things we wanted for him, as much for us. We wanted another family member, someone to fill out the cast, a supporting actress. And while our son would one day inevitably spin out of our little nucleus, we could count on the dog to stay. After dropping Charlie off at college, our dog would, in all likelihood, come back in the station wagon with usa reassuring thought. It was all pretty simple.

A purebred dog was never really part of our conceptit seemed an anachronism, a bit stuffy. There were plenty of dogs that needed homes, and wed osmotically learned that pet store animals might be products of puppy millsnot institutions that we wanted to support. And so on an unseasonably hot Friday afternoon in September, the week of Charlies tenth birthday, Angela and Charlie and I drove out to the North Shore Animal League in Port Washington. Wed heard that North Shore, unlike some of the other shelters in the area, always had adoptable puppies. Wed seen their trucks in Union Square, menageries of dog whimsy with pits and basset crosses and all manner of mongrels, waiting for somebody to change their lives.

Theres a cheerful seriousness in a place like North Shore, a whiff of destiny: lives are being determined. Adopting a pet is a big step, a family ritual, an obligation entered into joyfully but not lightly. As we pulled into the parking lot, we saw a boy of about seven crying as his mother tried to explain why the family wouldnt be getting a dog that daythere was just too much going on in their lives, and they werent ready for the added responsibility. But we were ready. Or at least, there didnt seem to be any prospect of our getting more ready. Now was the time.

North Shore is a fantastic place to get a dog. This is by design. At a great shelter, the adopters emotions are carefully managed. You feel the dogs need for companionship, without that feeling ever spilling over into guilt if you go home empty-handed. The trick is to make you want to save these dogs without it seeming like a burden.

To get to the inner sanctum where the puppies are kept, you have to pass by the pens of the older dogs, a cheerful cell block arranged around an interior courtyard where prospective adopters can take an animal they want to get to know better. The concrete floors are warmed in front, so the dogs will nap where the people can see them, not cower in a back corner. But most dont nap. They beseech you, pressing their noses through the chain links, trying to make a connection or barking exuberantly. You know you could change one of these dogs lives, take it away from its caged existencebut which one of the pits and Lab mixes and shepherds, each fixing you with eyes that seem designed to connect with you, to force you to fall in love, will you choose? Its a big decision, because by making it, youre leaving the rest of them to their lives in this place, loud and crowded but a bit lonely, waiting to be selected.

Wed thought for a while about getting an adult dog, imagining the satisfaction of doing a noble thing, the gratitude wed reap. But a puppywhat a joy! As a friend said, getting an adult dog would be like sex without the orgasm. A puppy would be ours, loving us above others, imprinted with our ways. I steeled myself, swallowing the guilt, and kept moving. Back in the inner sanctum, volunteers bustled about in blue scrubs as a few families evaluated their options amid a cacophony of puppyish barks. There was a wall of puppy condos, cages stacked three high, floored with newspaper. The dominant smell was cleaning products, with farmyard undertones, not at all unpleasant, though you got the sense that maintaining the place was a big job. Some of the cages occupants napped, especially the younger ones, but more of them were fully engaged, pressing against the bars, looking for contact, yipping eagerly.